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This story is based on characters from NBC's "Mad About You" universe, and is
a legally protected parody. The author does not necessarily endorse putting
Jamie Buchman in tight bondage and making her a come-swallowing little
fuckslave (but boy, it is one hell of an idea!)

After all, who hasn't looked at that hot little woman, with her sexy
hair-twist move over her ear, and tight little body and not thought, "Boy,
I'd love to fuck her!" And that long-suffering Paul, what better gift could
we give to him than turning that prissy little bitch of a wife into his
come-dripping submissive slut? This is a NINE-parter.



Mad About Fucking You (M/F, wife, F/F, s&m, bond, group)
by Walter Ego

Act One: "Jamie Awakens" Or "A Gift from A Broad"

INTERIOR, BUCHMAN BEDROOM , NOONISH

Jamie Buchman stretched her long legs and opened her eyes to the bright
morning light. Her husband Paul was busy at his studio, struggling to bring
some documentary in on time and under budget. Murry The Dog was on vacation
with Nate, the dog groomer, at some farm upstate, and here she was, sleeping
in and relaxing. This was going to be a great morning.

She wished Paul was here, she thought idly as she pulled on her jeans. He
seemed to be spending more and more time at the studio. Lately the spark
seemed to be gone from their marriage. The stress of trying to get pregnant
was wearing them both down.

She frowned as she walked past the bathroom mirror. She wasn't getting any
younger. The "pointer sisters" were still good, but it wouldn't be too long
before they started to droop. "Nice ass, though," she thought to herself as
she turned to head to the kitchen.

There was a loud knock at the door. "This had better be good," she complained
aloud as she pulled a sweater over her head. A quick look at the peephole
showed it was Maggie Conway, the English bitch from across the hall. Jamie
put on her best phony smile and opened the door.

"Your husband's pornography has come to our mailbox again," Mrs. Conway said,
dumping an armload of brown paper wrapped packages just inside the Buchman's
door. "I want you to know that those three were broken open before we got
them. The mail service in this country is not to be trusted."

Jamie blinked. "Excuse me?" She stared down at the small pile of magazines.
"Facefull Monthly" stared back at her. A laughing eighteen-year-old girl in
seamed nylons was down on her knees, and something white and milky was all
over her face. Jamie shamefully felt her panties go moist.

"Porno? You know, beaver shots?" The woman whined. "I don't understand why he
just doesn't get the stuff from the bloody Internet like everyone else." She
paused and watched Jamie's astonished face. The slight blond neighbor seemed
amazed, and after a moment took Jamie's elbow.

"Oh, dear, you don't know, do you? May I come in?"

The dazed Jamie was going to protest, but she simple stood there, opened
mouthed. From another broken package, out peeked a picture of a blonde girl
on all fours wearing a green plaid skirt flipped up over her bottom. A man's
thick, bulging cock was pushing into her shaved pussy. Damn, did women
actually do that? Under the rough sweater, Jaime's nipples were complaining
about the heat.

Sympathy seemed to line Maggie's face as she took Jamie's elbow and lead her
into the Buchman's living room, where she steered her to a seat on the couch.

"You know I'm divorced. Did I ever tell you why my first husband left me,
Jamie?"

"No, I don't think so." The girl's got a shaved pussy, Jamie thought. Like a
fucking whore. Taking it right up there. And she was *smiling*.

"My first husband was a man of strong... desires," said the woman, shifting
uncomfortably. "He needed things I wasn't ready to provide. We British are
popularly associated with caning. He wanted that... and more. Blowjobs,
nipple clamps, that kind of thing."

Jamie's attention was drawn from the magazines by the door, back to the
woman's face. She stared into her hazel eyes, struggling to follow the
conversation. (Blowjobs? Did I hear her say that?) "And this affects me,
how?"

She sighed. "If Paul is getting this and you don't know about it, then he's
looking for something... something you aren't giving to him. True, we'd like
to have your apartment, but I wouldn't wish to get it that way." She reached
out and held Jamie's chin. "Don't make the same mistakes I did."

Jamie swallowed, took a deep breath, and lowered her head. A wet spot was
beginning to form on the crotch of her jeans. "I think I'd like you to leave
now," she said.

"Well, I hope things straighten out," said the slight British woman as she
stepped over the pile of magazines and headed for the door.

"And if you ever need something, call me." Jamie slammed the door, turned her
back to it and slid to the floor amidst the packages.

"Like nipple clamps," Maggie said quietly to herself with a smile, as she
entered her own apartment and closed the door.

One tired and worn magazine lay on top of the stack, it's paper mailer long
gone, and two others had been apparently torn open in shipping. She tore open
several of the brown-paper wrapped magazines, and examined them with a
disdainful eye.

Cum Gobblers Number Eight. (Did Paul have the other seven?) Hard-Banging
Lesbians. Oriental Schoolgirls. She ripped the packages open one by one...
they were all addressed to Paul. This stuff was going out with the other
trash!

Her bare feet thudded loudly down the carpeted hallway. Halfway to the
incinerator, a magazine dropped from the pile, and fell open. Jamie stopped
in her tracks. She spoke out loud, almost surprised that she would say the
words that lay on the page: "My Little Anal Princess".

The girl was blond, and very attractive, but with a slightly crooked nose.
She wore black nylons and pumps, long white gloves, and a tiara. It looked
like she was in some kind of "Tower of London" dungeon. The smiling
"princess" had her hands were cuffed in front of her, and her legs were
separated by a long wooden stick, buckled to her ankles. (She's not going
anywhere, something said in Jamie's brain. Not even if she wanted to, and I
think she knows what's coming.) The stain on Jamie's jeans was quite visible
now. She reached down, struggling to hold the rest of the stack, and turned
the page.

A man's erect penis appeared in a close-up shot, an inch from the pink ring
of the girl's anus. It had been rubbed with oil, it glistened. Jamie turned
another page. And the tightly-bound blond princess smiled for the camera as
the man plowed into her ass.

Jamie came, and dropped the magazines. She had never come before without
being touched, but there it was. She stifled a scream.

Maggie Conway opened her apartment door and smiled. "I thought I heard you
out here. Do you need help carrying all those magazines, Jamie?"

"No, no. Got 'em! Thanks!" Jamie scooped up the magazines in a bundle,
struggling to cover her damp jeans with them. "Doing great. No problem."
Jamie waited an endless moment for the smug woman to go away. Maggie closed
her door with a snicker, and Jamie dashed for her apartment, clutching the
slick magazines to her rock-hard nipples.



Act Two: "Big Dave" Or "It's My Dildo and I'll Moan if I Want To"

INTERIOR, BUCHMAN BEDROOM, AFTERNOON

Jamie was steamy as a gardenia nursery. She slammed the door, ran for the
bedroom and dumped the magazines on the bed. It would be wrong not to check
these things out, wouldn't it, if the bitch was right. These could be
threatening to her marriage... she needed to know what was inside them. Her
nipples crinkled in pain as she pulled the tight, rough sweater off. The
lubrication was running down her thighs as she pulled off the jeans.

A rather grown up looking Asian girl was being spanked by her teacher in one
of those little Japanese paper-windowed buildings. Jamie's fingers were wet
now, and busy. She turned the pages like a mad-woman, drinking in the
pictures. Her clit felt huge. The girl was bound in ropes now. Pump, pump.
She was sucking on a huge cock, her jaw stretched painfully wide, her lips
red and tight.

Look at her, Jamie thought. She's absolutely overpowered, but she's smiling.
She has no choice, and she's happy about it. Totally submissive. Jamie had
always been the one to call the shots in bed. Once, to get Paul to shut up,
she had licked his penis. Once. Just one lick. And her was a girl with no
choice at all. That man is going to come all over her, or else make her
finish by coming... in... her... MOUTH!

The cute blond housewife screamed into her pillow, and felt her head explode.
She had four fingers up her vagina. No, something primal in her dazed brain
said, up her *cunt *.

"My pussy," she said aloud, tasting the words on her tongue like forbidden
candy. "My Slit.

My fur-fringed FUCK HOLE!"

Her wet cunt was pouring like a river by now. I have to have *something*,
she thought. Did they have any cucumbers in the house? Then her eyes went
wide as she remembered Big Dave.

Dave had been a gag gift at her wedding shower. Lisa had gone down into the
Village into some dimly lit sex shop, and come back with it.

Jamie had blushed when she unwrapped it, and hid it under the bed that day.
She rolled off the bed and rooted around under it, looking for what she
wanted. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, where is it?" At last, behind a set of old high
heels (that she hadn't worn in a year, she thought offhandedly) there it was.

She ripped the shrinkwrap off it and brought Big Dave out into the light.
Damn, it was big. Half again as long as Paul, probably twice as big around.
She had been repelled when she originally unwrapped it. Somehow now Big Dave
seemed to be just what she needed. "Big BLACK Dave!" She said to herself.
Jamie Buchman, who two hours ago would have sneered at what she was about to
do, flicked the switch. "DAMN!" Dead batteries.

She raced around the apartment, leaving a pussy juice trail like a snail all
over the carpet. Finally, in the back of the utility drawer in the kitchen
she found a working flashlight. In a flash, the thing was screwed open, and
it's precious contents extracted.

A second later Big Dave was humming away like a Mixmaster on Puree.

Jamie was ass up on the bed with the vibrator humming along reassuringly next
to her inside of a minute. The next magazine off the rapidly shirking pile
plopped onto her pillow. She had lost count of the number of her orgasms. A
spark inside her had been ignited, and her head was spinning. She needed
another one, and she needed it NOW.

"Dommie Dearest", she read from the cover. This magazine actually looked a
bit older than the rest, although it had no month on it. A prim looking
brunette with her hair in a bun was spanking a young blond bent over a wooden
teacher's desk. Jamie felt a chill run up her spine. This wasn't some fake;
the girl's bottom was cherry red. The inside cover had an ad for "real school
canes, so hard to come by these days" at an address in England. She ignored a
letters column, and began flipping to the to the start of the articles, but
before she got to them, she hit the ads.

"Oh my God."

Jamie had led a fairly quiet life. When her roommates in college were out
partying, she stayed in the dorm to bone up on her classes. She could only
guess at the use of some of the things she saw for sale... but some of them
were instantly identifiable. Buttplugs, the ad shouted, unashamedly. A woman
was bent over some kind of stocks, and a man in a black leather mask was
pushing an impossibly big one into her anus. Jamie shifted on the bed,
rocking gently. She could never buy that. Would Paul, if she asked him to, or
could she even face him with such a request?

With each page, she breathed harder. Nipple clamps. Wrist Restraints. By now,
Big Dave had begun his inevitable trip, and an inch of the black plastic
invader was inside her dripping gash. "Damn, fuck me, Paul, FUCK ME!" she
moaned. The thick monster was almost too big for her, but every page made her
jam the thing deeper. Ankle Cuffs. She wouldn't be able to get away in those,
would she? Ball Gags. A wild-eyed blond modeled the "Red Rubber Model with
Black Leather Bindings." Paul could bang her all night in one of those, and
even the Queen Bitch wouldn't hear her.

Finally, Big Dave was half-way home, and humming away. Jamie was panting like
a racehorse, grunting with every thrust, and stopping only to use one sticky
hand to turn pages. A black leather clad woman in a hairdresser's smock
stared back at her. Her nipples were being clipped by what she now knew as
nipple clamps, connected by a gold chain. She was mid height, about thirty
five, and had a black leather mask over her upper face. The most amazing
hazel eyes peered out. "Riveting," Jamie thought, "the kind that mean
business. No nonsense." In the next picture, the tough woman was shown
standing in a beauty parlor. "We'll Make a New Girl of You", a sign insisted.

A timid brunette rang the front bell; a mousy girl, nothing fancy. The masked
woman began the makeover. But this was something more, Jamie noted, rubbing
her wet snatch. Before long, the younger girl was naked, and over the woman's
lap. Jamie could feel the sting of each spank on her own naughty ass. Out
came handcuffs...

Jamie wished she had the ballgag from the ads now, as she tried to hush her
own moans. The older woman relaxed back in a barber's chair, and guided the
younger one down, down, down. She was shaved bald. Jamie looked for the first
time at the pussy of another woman, at the masked bitch's dripping snatch;
how the lips, probably pushed and pulled by a thousand miles of cock, hung
wetly, and how the younger woman's tongue explored them.

She came, with a shudder, but she knew more was waiting for her.

Jamie savagely pushed at the vibrating dildo and gained another inch. Was it
like that when Joan did it, she idly wondered? All wet, and hot and pink? By
now, the young girl was finishing her makeover. Heavy eye makeup. "Slut!"
Jamie said to herself. Wet red lips. "DOUBLE slut!" The dildo was flying now,
in out, in out. This was going to be a good one.

The pretty faced girl was pushed down over a set of stocks, her head in a
black leather hood, all her senses blocked off. Nipple clamps now bit tightly
at the young girl's tits, and long silver chains ran down to eyebolts set in
the wooden floor. Jamie shivered. No getting away for her, she thought. The
formerly prissy Jamie Buchman turned the page.

Her eyes opened wide. She suddenly knew what a "strap on dildo" was for. The
Domme stepped up behind the bound girl, wearing an enormous, lifelike phallus
in a tightly-cinched leather harness. The head of the massive dildo went in
the girl's asshole. The bitch bore down hard, sinking it deep into the
struggling girl's firmament, and Jamie came so hard she worried her heart
would stop, screaming all the way.

On the other side of the wall, the Maggie Conway stretched and smiled, and
went back to fingering her own shaved pussy. "The whore might learn something
after all," she mused aloud.



Act Three: "Dream a Little Dream of Me" Or "Eat your Heart Out, Patty Duke!"

---------------Interlewd-----------------------

Her head felt full of cotton candy. She was standing in the kitchen, madly
scrubbing the floor, the walls, the sink, trying somehow to make them clean
again. Dirty. Dirty little slu---...sink. That was it.

Jamie looked down, and realized she was naked, wearing nothing more than her
black stiletto heels. In a passing moment, she wondered "How the Hell did I
get here?" But then the dirty floor took her attention. She scrubbed the
tiles on the floor roughly, her ass in the air, waving slightly from side to
side.

She heard the humming at first. It started softly, then got louder until she
couldn't ignore it. She glanced at the drawer by the stove, where the noise
was coming from. It scared her, somehow. Finally, the drawer began to shake,
and she had to open it.

A big, black plastic flashlight in the drawer had gotten turned on, somehow,
and was shaking gently. She took it in her hand, and felt somehow thrilled,
as if she shouldn't be touching it. Jamie felt herself get wet, wet as the
bucket of warm, thick white suds she was using on the floor.

"Ughhh, ughhh, UGHH!" The noise came from far away. Jamie's ears perked up.
That sounded like Paul! Taking the vibrating flashlight in her hand, she
walked out of the kitchen, and headed for the bedroom.

The TV was blaring some old Disney flick, something about Snow White, but it
couldn't be Disney, could it? Because when she looked going by the set, Snow
White was down on her knees being fucked in the ass by the Handsome Prince.
Damn cable. That kind of stuff should be on late where little girls couldn't
see it.

Jamie rubbed her friendly flashlight against her pussy lips, and it hummed
back at her. Had she been drinking? The room seemed to be gently rocking,
like a handheld camera in one of those damn documentaries Paul was always
making. She reached the bedroom door, and looked inside.

The girl was Asian, about sixteen, wearing a plaid school skirt, and was
sucking Paul's cock.

Jamie entered the room, feeling like an outsider.

"Oh, hi." Paul said, placing his hands behind the girl's head, and pushing
gently. Jamie waited for the young schoolgirl to gag, but it didn't happen.
Her bright red lips just pursed up a bit, and down went Paul's penis, down
the hatch. She noticed that the tiny woman was wearing makeup Paul had gotten
for her on their anniversary, the stuff she had never gotten around to
wearing. Slut.

"She can't be enjoying that," Jamie said, trying to win back Paul's
attention.

"Well, she's not complaining." Paul said. His balls were now banging on the
girl's chin. Jamie could see her throat bulge with his thickness, and the
schoolgirl began bobbing her head, in long deep strokes. Paul was making the
little whiney noises that he did; it wouldn't be long now.

"Umm... I could do that for you." Jamie was desperate now. And she realized
she somehow hadn't eaten in days.

"You?" Paul snorted, his eyes shut in pleasure. "I think not. You wouldn't
suck cock if your life depended on it."

She shifted uneasily. The girl pulled back, and Jamie saw the amazing sight
of Paul's thick, pink meat pulling endlessly out of the slut's red, tight
lips.

"Fuck me, Paul," the tiny Oriental woman said, getting down on all fours on
the bed. "Take that hard cock and dick me. Put it in my pussy until I scream.
Make me feel it in my throat, then come all over my face and make me lick it
up. It's sweet, Paul. I want to eat your come. Give me a facefull, Paul."

Jamie's pussy was dripping, and she struggled not to put the flashlight in it
right there.

Paul couldn't know what a slut she was. He was going to see. But Paul didn't
really seem interested in her at the moment.

Her husband reached into her old briefcase and pulled out a pair of shiny
handcuffs. "Take these, and cuff her hands behind her back," he ordered his
wife. Jamie did so. Every click of the cuffs as they came down around the
girl's wrists made Jamie shiver. With one move, Paul was "balls deep" in the
Asian's shaved pussy.

"Yeah, do me, do me!" she screamed. "Put it to me, fuck me, fuck my pussy,
FUCK MY ASS Paul! Ream me OUT! Bury it in me, come in my asshole, FUCK ME!"

Jamie lay a hand on her husband's shoulder.

"Paul, her talk is upsetting me. I don't like it."

Paul didn't stop his pumping. "You're the one with the ballgag, Jamie. Why
don't you use it?"

Jamie looked down and noticed that she was holding a ballgag, some kind of
red rubber model with black leather bindings.

"Yes, yes, YES, lover! Do me! Pour that jiz into me!" At first the girl
fought her, but Jamie slapped her face, and when she opened her mouth to
scream, in it went. She buckled it tightly behind the Asian's head, which was
good, because the very next thing that the bound whore did was to scream.

Paul had done it; he had pulled out, and had begun the assault on the girl's
asshole. And somehow, the slut had gotten her cuffed hands in front of her,
and Jamie could see her long, red fingernails as she diddled her dripping
snatch.

Jamie looked down, and noticed the bedspread was soaked, not from the other
whore, but clearly from her own snatch. Paul looked right at her, and stared
at her eyes until she turned away ashamed.

"Dirty little girl," he said, and that was it. She grabbed the flashlight,
and slammed it home in her snatch. It felt great.

"You could do that to me," Jamie pleaded.

"I would let you."

Paul hunched over the screaming girl, using the angle to get deeper into her
butt. "When I fuck your ass, Jamie, it won't matter if you 'let me'."

Jamie was close now, and she noticed for the first time that the Asian girl
had blonde hair, cut much like her own. The slight woman stared into Jamie's
eyes, and seemed to be saying something, screaming through the mask. She
reached down and unbuckled the ballgag.

"Let me suck you!" moaned the blue-eyed girl. Jamie pulled the flashlight
clear with a wet sucking sound, and planted her gash in front of the
schoolgirl. She leaned back, and felt her tongue go deep in her pussy,
sucking up the juice, tickling her clit. Her whore's clit.

Paul was spanking the girl now. With Paul's every thrust, she ground that
incredible tongue into Jamie's pussy. She came. And came again. And suddenly,
he pulled out, grabbed the girl upright by her long blonde hair, and began
coming, grunting with passion.

It was incredible; Jamie had never seen Paul come so much as when he blew off
all over the tiny Asian girl. The first jet landed across one eye, plastering
it shut. The second and third nailed the center of her tongue, which she
stuck out like a hungry calf; it pooled there like thick oatmeal. A blast
landed across the girl's breasts. A dozen more splattered across her face,
her thighs, until she was a huge come sundae, painted prettily. She was also
fingering her slit like a nympho, and seemed to be having an orgasm on each
and every wet salvo of jiz.

And then the girl turned to face Jamie, and she saw that she had been wrong;
she wasn't Asian. She was about Jamie's height, and about Jamie's weight. And
she had Jamie's eyes, though right now one of them was plastered shut with
come.

The girl soaked in Paul's come, scooping it up like caviar, and spooning it
into her mouth, which was now one big pool of sperm. Jamie fingered her now
abandoned clit, as she watched the girl shovel the come into her mouth. And
the then the teen leaned down, far over Jamie, breast to breast, and began
grinding her wet, shaven slut pussy up and down on the woman's dripping hairy
one. Jamie wrapped her legs around the girls slim hips, grunting like an
animal, her warm juice squishing against the teen's bald pussy. The girl
opened her mouth, and the wet ball of jiz poured out of it like some obscene
fountain, and a thick wad of her husband's come filled Jamie's mouth. She
swallowed, and came, and swallowed, and came. And then Paul roughly shoved
the humming flashlight up her ass, and she came again.

* * *

When Jamie woke up from her dream an hour later, she felt like Sleeping
Beauty. Her life was now divided into two parts, and a new day was beginning.

It took her most of the afternoon to find it all. The sales slip was still
with Big Dave, so she had some idea where to go. Two bus rides later, she
stood in The Big Wet Boutique, a "Adult Gifts Emporium." "Damn," she thought,
"I wish I could stop lubing." It took $300 of her savings to buy everything
she needed, but by the time she was done shopping, she was squishing as she
walked. She had to stop in to a restaurant ladies room just to masturbate so
she could make it back home.



Act Four: "What's for Dessert?" Or "Someone's in the Kitchen With Jamie"

INTERIOR, BUCHMAN LIVING ROOM, NIGHT

"Honey, I'm Home!" Paul Buchman called, with a wry smile. The bus had broken
down halfway uptown, and what with grabbing a burger, it was nine PM before
he got home. These days had been rough ones, but now that the model train
documentary was edited and submitted, he had some time left for the rest of
his life. "Have to get the super to fix that damn buzzer again," he thought
to himself as he keyed in the front door. Paul walked into the living room,
and began looking though the day's mail. Bill, bill. He sat down on the
cough.

"Ouch!" He had sat on some vidtapes. The labels made him shudder. At first,
he was worried he had left some of his porn tapes out, until he checked the
titles, and realized he didn't know them.

"Amateur Carpet Munchers. Big Bad Bulldyke. Up the Old Dirt Road Number
Four." Paul grimaced and hopped up. "Damn. Has Ira been here?". Jamie would
pitch a hissy fit if Ira had been doing the One Handed Fandango in their
living room! At least she wasn't home yet. He'd have to box these things up
and get them the hell out of here.

When he got to the bedroom to look for a box, he was knocked back by the
smell. Jeeze, their honeymoon hadn't been this overwhelming. Had Ira brought
a girl here?

Then he saw them, his magazines. These titles, he recognized. "Oh, man. It's
the fifteenth. How did they get over here?" Then he looked around the room
and noticed the box on the dresser. Leather, and lots of it. What the hell
was Ira thinking?

When he got in the bathroom, he noticed the enema bag. And the bottle of
Canola Oil.

"This is way beyond even Ira. What the hell happened here?"

"Paul?" Jamie's voice called out.

"Shit!" Paul turned and headed for the kitchen, trying to think of an
explanation.

"Honey, come on in here for a minute, will you?"

He stammered as he opened the door.

"Jamie, all this stuff isn't...:" And then there wasn't really anything he
could think of saying. He hadn't seen those high heels in a year. The seamed
nylons were new. The white gloves drove him mad. He had absolutely no clue
as to why she was wearing a tiera. But his demure, straightlaced wife was
bending over the kitchen counter dressed like a whore.

"Hello, Paul." Jamie smiled over her shoulder. The smell was pretty bad in
here too, and her apparently freshly shaved pussy was wetter than he had ever
seen it.

"Uh, I.., where...Uh..."

Jamie took the kitchen timer and twisted it. "You've got two

minutes to get it hard and assfuck me." She lay her head down on her folded
arms, and wiggled her butt in a way she hoped was seductive.

"Uh, I haven't got any lube, we used up the KY last week," he stammered.

"Right-hand kitchen drawer. One minute, fifty seconds. Make me your hot
little anal princess, Paul." She closed her eyes and waited.

The drawer flew open. Paul was greeted by a small can of Crisco, some
handcuffs, a ball gag and a rather large buttplug. The circuits in his brain
were dangerously overloaded. This couldn't be happening.

There are times in your life, Paul thought, when you don't ask why. You just
write the letter to Penthouse after everything is cleaned up.

His pants had hit the floor before Jamie had finished her last sentence. He
grabbed the Crisco and slathered up, kicking his Chinos across the room. He
nestled his rock hard cock against Jamie's beautiful pucker. He had never
gotten this far before. He paused to admire the view. That was a mistake.

A raging fire burned within Jaime, the endless battle between the Good Girl
and the Bad Girl. Paul had talked about it before. But however wet and ready
she was, this was something that was a really big step. At that moment, Jamie
wavered.

"Paul, this isn't right. Let me up." He saw red. Paul Buchman grabbed the
handcuffs, and before a heartbeat had passed, his pretty wife's wrists were
clacked together, with the cuffs' chain wrapped behind some exposed pipes in
the kitchen.

"Paul, no. Let me up!"

He reached down and twisted Jamie's left nipple harder than he imagined he
could. When she opened her mouth to scream, the ballgag popped in place, and
he buckled it down firmly behind. If it was possible, in that moment, she was
more beautiful than he had ever seen her.

"No, I'm afraid that's not a choice, Jamie." He leaned close, partly for the
effect, and partly to secure her struggling body to the counter while he
worked.

"Let me tell you about nice girls, Jamie. One, nice girls don't go prying
into their husband's things without asking." A rough, stinging slap impacted
the bound girl's ass.

"And B," nice girls don't wile away the afternoon watching bull-dyke porno
videos, creaming their slits until the whole apartment smells like a Turkish
brothel." A two-handed double spank.

"And three, nice girls don't give themselves fucking corn-oil enemas so their
greedy little assholes are primped and ready." Another blistering slap. Her
ass was really getting attractive now.

"And D, nice girls don't leave bondage equipment laying around the house so
they can be easily 'captured' and boned up the ass. You don't weasel out of
it this time, slut." She was ready, whether this was some little game or not.
After seven years of marriage, she was going to take it, big time. He lined
his rock-hard dick up with her glistening asshole, and slammed it home. She
was screaming into the gag, he noted with a smile, but it was a *good* kind
of screaming.

"They didn't answer the buzzer," Ira said to Fran. "Let's just leave them a
note and go to the movies."

He put his key away and stepped into the apartment.

"Hey, porno!" Ira began looking at the video boxes. Fran looked away. Men! It
was then that she heard the moans from the kitchen.

"Hey, you don't suppose they are at it again, do you?" she whispered. Ira
smirked and crept to the closed kitchen door, creeping it open an inch.

He took a deep breath, and smiled wickedly. "You tell me."

Fran stepped up and did the same. "What the hell is that?" she whispered.

Ira pulled her back to the front door so they could talk.

"That, my dear, is the centerspread of this month's Wank, "My Little Anal
Princess". Of course in Wank, the girl looks more like Lady Di."

"That's just sick," Fran said, turning away. She was squeezing her thighs
together, Ira noted with a smile. "How could he make her do that?"

"Look," Ira said, pulling her close, "you know James enough to know that she
doesn't do anything she doesn't really want to. If she's dressed like that,
and taking it in the ass, it sure as hell was her idea."

"One more look," Fran said, and quickly crept across the carpet and cracked
the door a bit. Paul was pounding Jamie, over and over. She couldn't see for
sure at this angle, but from what Ira had said, Jamie was really getting
reamed. Would he come in her, or spray it on her? Fran's hand drifted down to
her own crotch, rubbing through her clothes. In or on?

"You know," Ira whispered tenderly in her ear, "we're only about a ten minute
walk from my apartment if we hurry."

Fran grabbed her purse, and they were out the door, closing it quietly. You
didn't want to disturb a personal moment like that. And if she didn't get Ira
up her ass, and soon, she was going to be bitching louder than Jamie.



Act Five: "Bark Like a Dog" Or "I'm Not Cleaning THAT up!"

INTERIOR, BUCHMAN KITCHEN, NIGHT

Jamie Buchman was really sweating now. Paul had been reaming her greasy ass
for fifteen minutes, and it was more than she could stand.

He had to be near coming, he had to. Try as she might, something was still
missing for her, she couldn't quite make it over the top. Paul had pulled out
for a moment, leaving her empty and begging, but had just gone to get one of
the gifts from their wedding, a Champaign glass with "bride" on it. It was
now between her legs, catching every drop of the wet pussy juice that was
pouring out of her cunt. By the way she felt, it would be full soon. Then
what would he expect her to do with it?

That did it. Her first assfucking orgasm arrived, and she flopped beneath him
like an epileptic. Paul noted in the reflection from the shiny toaster that
Jaime's eyes had rolled up in her head.

"OK, Jamie. You wanted to be my anal princess? You're going to be a lot
more." He grunted as he plowed deep into her ass. She was feeling his balls
slap her empty fuckhole. He was feeling her wet, slick, hot asshole grabbing
at him, milking him. Did it get better than this? "You know what happens to
bad girls, Jamie?" Thrust, thrust. "Bad girls get paddled. Bad girls get
chained up. Bad girls get fingered, and left high and dry all night." Time
for the heavy artillery. "Really bad girls get left naked and wet in the
hallway, for everyone to see."

Jamie saw herself, wet and dripping, chained ass up in the hall; dildo, hood
and buttplug in place. She was a Whore. She would let anyone finger her, or
drill her in the ass like Paul was doing right now. In an instant, she
realized why the woman in the magazine had hazel eyes, and who really owned
Dommie Dearest, and for a second, it wasn't Paul who was assfucking her
greedy little hole. She came.

When Paul felt his beautiful wife juice, it drove him over the edge. He came
with a scream, unloading several days of jiz into the oiled, sucking ass of
his bound wife. Jamie felt molten hot jets of Paul's come scorch into her
guts...it felt like she would be tasting it, it went so deep. A third really
big come hit her. And at that moment, prim prissy Little Manners did
something that Paul would hold over her head until the day she died. She came
so hard her bladder cut loose.

He heard the first splash, and rescued the champagne glass before a drop hit
it, but there was no stopping the rest. It gushed out over the kitchen tiles.
Jamie hung limp, supported only by the handcuffs around the pipes, and knew
in her heart that she had actually come so hard that she had fouled herself.

"Bad dog!" Paul said, and slapped her red ass off to one side. She hung
there, as her breathing came back to normal, feeling her husband's hot, wet
spunk drip out of her still enlarged asshole, dribble over her shaven pussy
lips, and splash wetly onto the floor. After a moment, she felt the thick
black silicone buttplug she had bought roughly wedged into her asshole,
sealing Paul's love juice inside her.

He stepped away, and returned with Murry's old collar, buckling the worn,
soft thing around her slim neck. When the shiny silver buckle was dogged
down, Jamie knew that she no longer was in charge, and somewhere inside she
was glad of it.

In that moment, she knew that she was now more than her husband's little anal
princess. In that moment, Jamie Buchman knew she now was his little anal
whore.

If she expected tender afterglow, she was not going to get it. Paul undid the
handcuffs and lowered Jamie to the floor on all fours, and roughly grabbed
the dog collar, forcing her face within inches of the urine-slick floor.

"Bad dog!" he barked. Her breath caught in her throat. Surly he wouldn't...

"See was a mess you made! Your housekeeping has been bad enough up to now,
but I honestly didn't think I'd ever have to clean up this!"

"I'm sorry," she said in a quiet, little-girl voice.

"Sorry WHO?" he said, edging her elegant face closer to the filth.

"Sorry MASTER!" she shouted, hoping it was the right response. He pulled her
away from the puddle and opened the door into the living room. Putting his
thumb in her pussy and pulling carefully on the collar, he pulled her to the
threshold of the living room carpet, and told her to stay. It never entered
Jamie's mind to move.

He was gone only a few minutes, but they seemed like an eternity to the
stretched, submissive, dripping girl crouching on the tile. "I've really done
it this time," thought Jamie. Her nipples throbbed, and her anus had adjusted
to lovingly grasp the buttplug. As the moments past, the noises from the
bedroom indicated Paul was sorting through the box of stuff she had bought at
the Boutique. When he returned to her, she didn't even dare raise her head.

"Now, what am I going to do with you?" he questioned somewhere out of her
eyesight, far above her. "You've been a Bad Girl, and a Bad Dog. This is
going to have to be punished, Jamie." Her heart began beating faster again,
and she tried to clench her legs together, earning her another slap on the
ass.

"From now on, you are to check with me every time I leave the house, to see
how you are to behave when I return. My beautiful loving wife is Jamie.
That's fine. But who are you, girl? What do I call the kind of slut who gives
herself corn oil enemas and gets assfucked on the kitchen counter?

"Your secret slave name is going to be 'slutpuppy'. No one is going to know
it but me. If I call you that, I expect you to get on all fours, head down,
ass up like this." He once again locked her wrists in front of her with the
handcuffs, securing her on all fours.

"This is the "Submit" position. Get to know it."

"Yes, Master." She squeeked.

"Sadly, I'm going to have to clean up your mess, so you are going to be in
the Doghouse, slutpuppy." Paul pulled her upright on her knees, and firmly
took her left breast in his hand. Her nipple was like a steel rivet. He
reached into the box and brought out a nipple clamp.

Jamie swallowed hard. She had bought the clamps mere hours before. They were
silver with tiny thumbscrews to tighten them. The clerk had called them
"starter clips" as they had no teeth, but Jamie had insisted on small
weights; each clip had a three ounce lead weight attached, to pull and tug as
she walked. Paul attached the first one, and tightened it down.

No protest? Paul smiled. He couldn't believe that this sex-starved animal was
his prissy, haughty wife. Good deal. We'll see what you can take, Jamie
Buchman.

He attached the other clip to the right nipple, then connected them with the
silver chain. Beautiful. And then, just for fun, he gave each one a quarter
turn twist and reveled in Jamie's tiny moan. No time to test her like the
present...

"Submit!" Paul watched in approval as Jamie dropped to all fours, head down.
She grunted slightly as her quick movement slapped the nipple-weights against
the floor and as they swung back and forth, tugging and pulling her little
turrets. He turned away, and when he returned, he placed the "Bride"
Champaign glass on the floor beneath her mouth.

The smell was the perfume of concentrated lust, ode de cumslut. She almost
passed out. In that glass was the distillation of her submission, the wet
liquids that poured out of her as she gave up her anal cherry to her master.
She was repelled and attracted to it.

And just as she knew hours ago that Paul was going to fuck her ass full of
his wet come, she knew what she was supposed to do. She lowered her lips and
prepared to drink.

Paul grabbed her collar from behind, pulling her back and choking the air out
of her for a moment.

"Stop it, doggy!" He spanked her ass once.

"That glass belongs to my wife Jamie. If she had ever thought to use it to
sip up my love for her, I would have let her. I would have watched my white
tribute slide down her throat like the finest wine. Or if she had ever
thought to use it like this, just to be sexy and hot, I would have let her
use that glass to lap up her own sweet wetness." She hung her head as he
walked around her, his footsteps circling her, trapping her. Paul clicked
Murry's leash on the collar.

"You aren't my wife Jamie. You are the Slutpuppy." He poured the fragrant
juices into Murry's dogbowl, and slipped it under her face. He walked into
the living room, leaving Jamie alone in the kitchen. As he sat down and
scanned through the new videos, the only sound in the apartment was the
gentle lapping of her tongue as she gratefully ate the meal her master had
prepared for her, and licked the bowl clean.

She waited there, on the tiles, for ten minutes after she finished, vaguely
sickened by the smell of her "accident", and feeling the sheer emptiness of
her gaping and unfed pussy. She heard Paul approach again, and an instant
later, the world went dark for Jamie Buchman as a full leather hood descended
over her head and was buckled up the back.

"What the hell?" she yelled to the inside of the mask. She hadn't bought
this! She shook and tried to get away, but between Paul's grip on the collar
and the handcuffs, she wasn't going anywhere. Paul chuckled to himself. He
had bought the mask seven years ago, but had given up on introducing it into
their vanilla, missionary-style sexlife. He folded the ear flaps up so she
could hear him, and whispered tenderly into her pretty, pink ear.

"Now, I want you to do something for me, slutpuppy. I want you to concentrate
on your body. Feel how hard your nipples are, how wet your pussy is right
now." He jiggled the buttplug. "How your ass feels filled like this. You are
going to do as you are told, aren't you slutpuppy?"

Jamie nodded like a nice doggy. Paul began fingering her wet pussy. She
moaned into the open mouthpiece of the hood.

"Whoops, almost forgot," Paul whispered. A moment later a large penis-shaped
rubber insert was buckled into Jamie's mouth, filling it and pushing her
tongue back slightly. She whimpered. "You're next big adventure is going to
be cocksucking. I want you to think about that, and be grateful for it when I
allow you to. I know you are going to *love* breakfast, aren't you,
slutpuppy?" And with that, her master buckled down the earflaps, leaving her
and her dripping snatch in darkness.

The trip to the bedroom was a long one. She couldn't see where she was going,
so she had to rely on Paul's tugging on her leash and slaps on her red ass to
direct her. The weights from her nipple clamps dragged along the carpet,
occasionally catching on the shag and painfully yanking on her breasts. Her
pussy was dripping on the carpet, she was sure of it, making her trail like
some twisted Hazel and Gretle story.

And the buttplug, well, Paul took great pleasure in twisting it and sliding
it in and out. When she made it, finally, to the bedroom, she thought it
would be all over, that Paul would unbuckle her, release her, and that her
life would go back to being normal. The Slutpuppy spent the night on all
fours, bound and hooded, at the foot of the bed, waiting to be fucked. It was
part of her now; she needed to come, like she needed to eat. Paul's only
kindness to her was to remove the gag so she could breathe safely while she
slept in waiting. He did fold back her earflaps so she could hear him as he
beat off, and as he described in great detail the picture spreads in the
magazines; how happy the girls looked to be fucked, where they were taking
it, or the smiles of the jiz-drenched women. When he described "who was doing
what to who", she didn't even think to correct his grammar.

She just whimpered, thinking about how empty her pussy was, and how bad she
needed to come. When she finally fell asleep, she dreamt she was being
spanked by a hazel-eyed Domme, and thanking her for every slap.



Act Six: "Open Wide" Or "Breakfast is Served"

INTERIOR, BUCHMAN BEDROOM, MORNING

She awoke to the smell of bacon, and realized Paul had removed the hood while
she slept.

Jamie was stiff from being crouched at the end of the bed. Her loving husband
had picked her up and unlocked her fetters, and left her sleepy form on their
soft bed some time during the night.

"Wake up, sleepyhead," he called quietly into her ear.

"Muummm, five more minutes," she replied as she rolled over.

"Nope, got to eat to keep up your strength. Going to be a busy Saturday
today." He walked out of the bedroom towards the kitchen.

Jamie shifted uneasily in bed, and finally got up. No sign of the magazines
or the whatnot. She wandered to the kitchen. The floor was scrubbed clean,
and all signs of last night's ravishment were gone. She smiled. Maybe things
could get back to normal now, and they'd never talk about it again.

"Good morning, beautiful." Paul said, looking up from his Saturday morning
paper.

"Mummm?" she said, tousling her hair behind her ear. She sat gingerly in the
chair opposite him, her sore and tender ass reminding her of what happened
only last night. Damn, she was hungry. Jamie looked around the kitchen. Only
one place setting. "Where's my breakfast?"

"Oh, you'll get it in a bit. We have some things to discuss first."

She swallowed. "What kind of things, Paul?"

He reached into the cupboard and pulled out a giftwrapped box, with shiny
metallic paper and a black ribbon. "I picked up a few things for you on our
first anniversary that I've kept until now."

"Well," she said, smiling uncomfortably.

"What kind of things?"

"Open it." His face was blank, a page she couldn't read.

Cuffs. Leather ones, with inset metal studs, D-rings for tying down, and
sturdy buckles. Two slightly larger ones that would probably fit her ankles
were included, and at the bottom of the brightly-wrapped box was a collar.
Not a slim one like the one she had worn last night, but a fancy one, with
matching silver buckle. She noticed a small oval nameplate on the front, with
beautiful flowing script engraved on it.

"Slutpuppy," she read aloud. With that, her pussy turned on again. She could
say anything now, but inside she knew. "You've been thinking about this for a
long time, then."

"I think you have been too." The words hung in the air. She looked away. Her
cunt was really bubbling now. Paul pushed the box across the table at her. "I
want you to go take those clothes off and put these on." Not a question; a
command really.

Jamie stared at the contents of the shiny box for a moment, and stood to walk
away. She had to get out, to think. Too much had happened in the past 24
hours. She turned and headed out of the kitchen.

"SubMIT!" Paul called out, and without thinking, she was down on all fours,
head down, with her ass in the air. The adrenaline rush made her head swim;
she looked down at the kitchen tile almost in surprise at what her body had
done while she wasn't looking.

"Come on, slave. Let's go," Paul said in a disappointed town, and taking the
wooden pizza paddle from the kitchen counter, gave his wife's ass a sound
thwak to push her in the right direction. This jumpstarted the crouching
blonde's brain; an in an instant, his beautiful, submissive wife was
scrambling towards the bedroom, leaking wetly. Another such love tap along
the way helped keep her on target.

She had her clothes off, her cuffs buckled down and her ass in the air inside
of three minutes.

"I could really get to like this," Paul said aloud.

He took the chair from Jamie's makeup table and turned it around, so the back
faced it, and then flicked on the lights around the mirror.

A thousand times he had seen his pretty wife here, primping, combing, getting
her perfect body ready for a night on the town, or just to look her best on
the way to the office. Well, this time, she was his creation. He pulled her
gently to her feet, and with a slight shove of her ankles to spread her legs,
sat her down in the chair. He clicked two metal cinch rings onto her cuffs,
and locked her arms down low on the back of the chair so she was imprisoned
facing the mirror.

"Make-over time," he whispered in her pink ear.

It took over an hour. He pulled out cosmetics she had forgotten she owned.
Skin scrub, moisturizers, facial masks...he took her face and did incredible
things with it. Paul massaged emollients into her temples, cleansers and oils
into her neck. She felt the tension in her body disappear, and she slumped
slightly in the chair, receiving a light spank.

"Posture, dear," her Master reprimanded. Paul then took out a full assortment
of Jamie's makeup. Taking his time, he did her lashes until they fluttered,
added rouge to bring out her cheeks, brushed a striking blue tone onto her
eyelids. It seemed familiar, somehow. Something twinged in Jamie's memory,
something she couldn't quite place. Paul then pulled out the Wet Lip Gloss
#3. Jamie knew that color. Paul bought it for her on her birthday, and one
look had convinced her that she was never going to wear it; it was a really
bright red; a deep red that said things about someone so bold as to wear it.
("Fuck me red," Fran had called it when Jamie had complained to her about it
days later.)

"You'd have to be a whore to wear that color!" she had told Paul at the time,
"some kind of slut!"

"I have to get this right," Paul said, pausing to tape a magazine page on the
mirror above Jamie's reflection. She looked up, and recognized where she had
seen this makeup before. There on the page was the girl from the "Dommie
Dearest" photoshoot, her beautifully painted face close to the camera as her
anus was pounded by the hazel-eyed Mistress.

Jamie's eyes were riveted to the picture of the girl's face. A thick slug of
pussy juice oozed out of Jamie's open snatch as Paul carefully applied the
lip gloss, layer after layer, making her lips as red and shiny as a patent
leather boot.

"Stay very still," Paul ordered. "I want to get this perfect." Jamie's
breathing became ragged as the last layers of the gloss went on, her lips
pursed out large.

"You know," he whispered in her ear when he was done, "you'd have to be a
whore to wear that color." She shivered, and wished she could hide under the
covers and finger herself.

He had her stand and put her hands on the vanity's table, with her legs
spread wide and her head down. She at first imagined she would be spanked for
some forgotten infraction, and she stood there, uncertainly, as she waited
for the kiss of the first blow, staring at her slut-face in the mirror, and
imagining what the girl in the picture must be feeling. Her asshole flexed.
Dirty girl. Double slut.

Paul left for a moment, and she heard him putting a video in the player. The
sounds of moaning women called seductively to her from the living room. When
Paul returned, he had her leash. It clicked on her collar, and on order, she
dropped to the floor. With a tug, her husband/master trotted her out of the
bedroom. What awaited her?

He positioned her facing the TV, and told her to watch while he got ready.
This time it wasn't one of the tapes she had bought from that horrible man at
Lisa's store. It was one she had never seen before. There was no plot, no
story. Just woman after woman...sucking. Oh Damn, he wouldn't make her do
that would he? They were pretty, ugly, gorgeous. It seemed to be made up of
clips from other tapes.

Cheerleaders, nurses, Asian schoolgirls...and everyone of them going at it,
taking big, thick cocks into their mouths. Over and over. DEEP. And when the
men came...she couldn't believe it. Thick spews of white come blasted across
their faces, sticking to eyelashes, splashing noses. She couldn't do that.

"Master, I am sorry. I can't do that."

She hung her head.

"Oh, don't worry. You won't be." He smiled That Smile, the one she fell in
love with. She relaxed.

Paul ordered her to kneel, laying facedown over the coffeetable. "At last!"
Jamie thought, her greedy little pussy flexing. Damn, he's going to fuck me!
She was close, very close. She had wanted him in her pussy since last night,
lying at the foot of the bed. She couldn't see the TV, but she could hear
him change the tape to something else. This sounded like more conventional
coupling. A woman was moaning, a man ordering her about. Paul brought out
some rope, and tied her knees to the back legs of the table. He repeated the
procedure with her wrists, this time to the front legs of the low table.

Jamie began to twitch. Her belly on the smooth wood, her arms and legs
immobilized. She was building to it already. Helpless. He's going to fuck me
and I am helpless. An old joke about "Relax and enjoy it" fluttered through
her brain, and she finally understood it. She shifted her hips side to side,
as much as the ropes would allow, and cooed. "Come and get it."

Two things happened next. She heard what sounded like the crack of a whip on
the TV, and Big Dave wedged it's way up into her open snatch.

"Uggh!" she cried at the sudden invasion, and again when Paul cranked the
vibrator up to "10". The TV woman was begging, pleading, promising to do
anything, even "that", whatever that was. There was a long ripping noise
behind her, and then something stuck to her thighs, trapping Big Dave inside
her. So close. And she knew that Dave, like her, wasn't going anywhere.

"Damn, they're right!" said Paul with a chuckle. "Duct tape is good for
*everything*!" There was a creak on the couch in front of her, and she looked
up. Paul was naked, and an inch in front of her face was his penis. His erect
penis. His cock.

"Yep, you won't be doing that." He said grabbing her by her hair and pulling
upwards, aligning her slutty red lips with his foaming dick. "*You'll* be
swallowing!"

The thick head of his cock arrived on her tongue at the same time her first
orgasm arrived in her snatch. Jamie screamed and shook; it only stood to call
her Master onward. Staring down into her face, her perfectly made-up face, he
began to rock his hips back and forth.

"Come on, slut. Suck! Don't tell me you lay on this couch, fingering yourself
off, coming over and over, and you can't do this for your husband. I've had
enough of that crap. You are going to take me right down your throat, and
then you are going to have a belly-full of my come." Ugh, ugh. She struggled
in vain.

"Come on, slutpuppy, deeper. Relax your throat." Each pump seemed to gain him
some ground.

Yesterday morning, a day ago, she had seen one magazine cover with a smiling
girl, her face covered with semen, and wondered, "How can she do that?"
Paul's dick slid over her tongue, his hand tight around the back of her neck.

She struggled not to gag. Paul didn't know it, but at the "boutique" where
she had bought the toys, she had stood in a tiny room, feeding quarters into
a machine, and watched a woman do just this, in a kind of abstract, twisted
fascination. Here, now, in person, Jamie Buchman was sucking cock. Paul had a
thick, salty tang to him. He was moaning, talking dirty, calling her a whore.
Which she was, as far as she was concerned. That's what her roommate in
college was, when Jamie came back late, and Shawanda came to the door, with
come on her face. Dripping down it. In wet clumps. Shawanda didn't care. The
whore.

"Like me," Jamie thought.

Paul was pumping his dick fiercely, staring down at his perfect wife, his
perfectly madeup wife, as she sucked him. She had passed out of being forced.
She was moaning louder than the TV now. He glanced up and saw the perky blond
on the tube being locked into heavy stocks, waist high, and his head spun as
she was made to suck cock, just as Jamie was doing.

"Pucker your lips, dammit! If you do so much as scratch me, I'll beat your
ass red!"

Big Dave was pounding her pussy; another orgasm was on the way. And her
master was going to empty himself in her mouth. She was about to know what a
man's come actually tasted like. And she remembered now, standing at the
doorway to her dorm room, staring at Shawanda's face, and wondering what it
would be like to lean over and kiss her, and feel that come on her tongue.

Bang, over the edge. And this time, Paul went with her.

He came screaming. But as her Master, he had only told her part of the truth.
The first wet jet went right down her tight throat, and she didn't even taste
that one. ("Direct deposit", Paul would later call it.) The second emptied
right into her sucking mouth, and she would taste that one every day for the
rest of her life.

His body shook as the orgasm burned into his brain. And with an incredible
effort, he pulled out of his wife's slut-red lips, and emptied himself all
over her perfect makeup. A thick wet gob sloshed onto her left eyebrow,
plastered her eye with come, and trailed off over her nose. Another splashed
over her gaping red mouth, making her glistening lips appear even wetter as
her pink tongue snaked out and licked up all it could find.

"Uh, uh, UH!" Jamie's tongue stuck out as far as she could make it go, her
mouth gaping.

"Gimme! I want it!" she begged, and her body shook violently as she juiced
again. He had to grab her head with one hand, and like that, her shivering
form held in place, he blew his last wet wad right in the center of her pink
tongue.

Her wet, smeared and destroyed makeup branded her as a whore. Semen dripped
from her cheeks as she begged incoherently for more, with that last wet wad
perched proudly on the throne of her outstretched tongue.

"Hold it! Keep it right there!" Paul barked. His heart was going to explode.
That was incredible. He ripped off the duct tape, and his Slutpuppy almost
bitched like his wife, but when he pulled Big Dave out and let it flop,
humming on the ground, he thought she was going to go insane. To her credit
as a slave, though, she held his gift on her tongue, and didn't spill a drop.

He knelt down in front of her, his stern face to her wet, dripping one. She
couldn't escape his eyes. She imagined what he saw...his prissy, complaining
wife covered with his come.

Her eye stung when she tried to open it. As she lay there, tied before him,
in the terrible silence, she could actually *hear* the jiz sliding down her
face. He looked into her eyes lovingly, but as her master. She knew what he
was going to say even before she heard it.

"Swallow it," he ordered. And she did. And it burned all the way down to her
stomach, warm and wet, and when the flavor of his come had etched itself into
her tastebuds, she knew she was lost, and she would do anything he asked her
to. She was his slutpuppy, now and forever.



Act Seven: "Baby's Gone Shopping" Or "A Pornshop Owner Puts a Really Big
Buttplug Up the Slutpuppy's Cute Ass"

INTERIOR, BUCHMAN LIVING ROOM, MORNING

He left her there, tied down tightly, with his come drying on her face,
while he went out to the corner store to pick up a carton of milk. She was
uncomfortable, and yet exhilarated.

Paul had dragged the TV around in front of her and popped in a tape. Some
woman in black leather was spanking a short blonde, and making her suck a big
black strap-on dildo. Paul had tied her with her legs so far apart that she
couldn't bring herself off, but if she kept rocking her ass, she might be
able to bump her clit against the table. She grunted with exertion, trying to
come.

The phone rang loudly three times, and the machine got it.

"Hey Paulie," Ira called. "Got some interesting stories to tell you. Oh, and
your buzzer is broken, ya' yutz. I'll just come right up and key in. Save me
some breakfast."

Jamie panicked. "He's coming over right now. Ten minutes. tops. And I'm
laying tied down over my own coffeetable watching bull dyke bondage with my
husband's dried come on my face."

Her earlier rocking was nothing compared to what she was doing now. Minutes
past as she tried to escape, but she was tied by an expert. When she heard
the key in the lock, her heart skipped a beat.

Paul had the milk, and walked into the kitchen.

"Paul! Help! Ira's coming over!" The girl on the TV was now munching carpet,
sticking her tongue deep into the steamy unshaved snatch of her lover, while
her ass was spanked. Jamie tried to free herself, and managed only to bump
her clit against the table. She screamed in pleasure and frustration.

"I know. I invited him," Paul called from the kitchen. "You know, we just
don't see enough of him."

Jamie flopped on the table, struggling, her eyes wide. No, no...he wouldn't.

"I thought I could serve breakfast out here on the coffeetable," Paul
snickered, walking up to her. There was a knock at the door.

"Hold on," Paul called out, cutting his wife's bonds with a sharp pair of
scissors. He pulled her up, her stiff limbs complaining, and escorted her
into the hallway closet, shoving the ropes and stuff in with her.

"Stay here, and don't wipe off!" he ordered, firmly. She crouched hidden in
her own closet, smelling Paul's wet juice powerfully in the small space, with
cuffs on her hands and feet, and her collar around her neck. She prayed Ira,
hadn't worn a coat.

"Hey, Splinky, let me take your coat."

"Pauly, you goofball, I don't have a coat.

Do I smell bacon? Hey, let me tell you about what happened to Fran and ME
last night!"

They moved into the kitchen and out of ear range. She caught snippets of
conversation. Ira must be going to Pennsylvania for his vacation... something
about the "Hershey Highway." Thank goodness, he didn't seem to know anything
about what had happened here. Paul would keep this quiet, she knew he would.

She couldn't let anyone find out she had been slutting around like this.
She actually sucked cock, and swallowed. And took it up the ass, she still
couldn't really believe that. Jeeze, she was *stiff *. She stretched, and her
hand bumped into Big Dave.

Her eyes went wide. No, she wouldn't do it. Here it was, in her hands. She
could...but she wouldn't. What kind of animal would she be if she couldn't
hold off five minutes until Ira left. He might know she was in here if she
did. She couldn't risk getting caught. In here, covered with come, fucking
herself on a big, black, ribbed, vibrating dildo. A slut, a whore, a
cock-sucking, ass fucking little anal princess, who...

She slammed it in deep in one stroke, clicked it on and was off.

In, out. In, out. In, TWIST, out. Gonna come, gonna...

The door came open and daylight flooded in. A figure stood tall against the
sunshine, and Jamie couldn't make out who it was. But before her eyes
adjusted, she came, screaming.

"You little whore," Paul said, in an approving tone. "I could hear that thing
go on from the kitchen. You're lucky I was able to hustle Ira out of here."

He spanked her, of course, for being such a greedy little slut, and coming
without permission. She lay, bareass naked (what else?) over his lap, in her
cuffs, and accepted her punishment gracefully, counting her spanks like a
good little slave. Some part of her noted that this was getting easier all
the time, that to give him complete control of her body was now the easiest
thing in the world. By the time he got to ten, she was purring deep in her
throat, and pushing her red ass up to meet his strokes.

He did make her breakfast, finally. Pancakes and bacon, with scrambled eggs
on the side. But to her, every mouthful tasted of him. The syrup pooled
obscenely on her tongue, reminding her of being tied and lapping up Paul's
come like candy. She smiled to herself, and sucked up every drop.

He had her get dressed, and as soon as the cuffs were off, began calling her
Jamie again. They spent the day together. Lunch at a little deli near the
building, the afternoon at the Zoo. Around five o'clock the fall air got a
bit chilly, and Jamie cinched her trench coat around her to keep out the
chill. They stopped for a bite at some Mexican place, and Paul pulled her
close.

"Give me your panties," he said with a grin.

Jamie blushed and looked away. "Come on, Paul. Not here!" she laughed.

He stared into her eyes with That Look. No longer husband Paul... Master
Paul. She shivered, and not entirely from the cold. Jamie looked around the
deserted restaurant, and once she knew she was clear, obediently removed her
panties and placed them in her Master's hands. Her cunt began warming up
instantly, the cold matched by it's own lustful heat.

As they meandered around the city into little shops, Paul's beautiful wife
began to realize that he had lead them somewhere she knew... somewhere she
knew all too well. The neon sign for "The Big Wet Boutique" flashed at here
across the street. Paul had one arm around her and a hand clutching her
elbow as he walked her to the front door. Before going in the shop, he pulled
her cuffs out of his pocket, and buckled them on her wrists.

The same seedy guy was behind the counter, unpacking boxes. He looked up and
down Jamie's slim frame, and smiled. "Howdy, mam! Forget something?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Paul said, confidently, in the voice that had
pitched a thousand documentaries and sold most of them, "yes, she did. My
slave here came down to purchase a few things yesterday, and I've got a small
problem. Isn't that right, slave?"

"Mummbmbmb", Jamie replied.

"Repeat that," Master Paul warned.

"Yes, Master." Her eyes took in the floor.

He turned to the owner. "She was supposed to come home with a buttplug that
would really open her up, that she could use to loosen her ass up more, and
she brought me this tiny thing." The plug that Jamie had bought flopped on
the counter.

"Hey, no returns," the owner said. "Even we have standards!"

"Oh no," her Master replied. "I just wondered if you could recommend another,
bigger one we could buy." He turned to Jamie.

"Slave, put your hands on the counter."

Jamie Buchman of a week ago would have been shocked. But of course, Jamie
Buchman of a week ago wouldn't be standing in a porno shop on the wrong side
of town without panties. She placed her hands and spread her legs. Somehow,
she knew what was coming. Paul lifted the tail of her coat, and clipped it up
with a set of nipple clamps provided by the owner. She stood, exposed and
embarrassed in the truest sense of the word.

"I suspect I am going to need a paddle if she keeps getting out of line. Show
me something."

The seedy man offered Paul a selection of paddles, and finally Slutpuppy's
Master chose one. Five good slaps hurt like blazes, and felt worse than the
twenty she had gotten this morning. Finally, he was done. Tears streamed down
her cheeks, but she realized later that not once had she thought to ask Paul
to stop. "Now, about that plug," he said.

"We have several nice ones, larger than that economy model you came in with."
At last, Paul chose a large, tapered one with a round rubber ring at the end.
"That one is especially nice. With the taper and the ring, you can tie it in
easily for all day wear. Really open her up."

"Could you put it in for me so I see how it works? Her master asked.

The grimy little man greased the plug with Astroglide, and placed it at the
pucker of Slutpuppy's ass. Jamie felt all her breath rush out, as if her
whole universe contracted and spun on that little dark hole. He pushed, and
pushed some more. Her ass opened like a reluctant flower, and she felt the
plug sink deep inside her. The last inch hurt horribly; she bit her knuckle
and moaned out loud, not caring who heard her. Finally the worst was passed,
and it sank into her ass. Paul put his finger in the ring on the plug, and
jiggled it.

Her juice was trickling onto the floor. He unclipped her coat, and it fell
back, covering her ass like the curtain coming down on an off-Broadway play.

The applause snapped her back to reality. She looked up and three men who had
come out from the quarter booths smiled at her performance.

She wanted to sink through the floor. Could she go any lower without being no
more than a gaping asshole and a constantly juicing pussy?

"She'll wear it home," he said. Paul dropped the old buttplug into the
garbage can. "This one isn't going to fit her before long. Slave, thank the
man. *Nicely.*"

"Thank...thank you for the lovely buttplug."

Paul stared at her. "And for putting it up my naughty slut-ass. And thank you
for the spanking, Master."

"There's something you forgot, slutpuppy."

Jamie stared questioningly. Paul grabbed her neck firmly and pointed her eyes
downward.

"You've made a mess on this nice man's floor."

Without even thinking Jamie Buchman, Phi Beta Kappa and PhD, got down on her
hands and knees in a pornshop and licked her wet juice off the floor. She had
to, didn't she? Her Master told her to.

Satisfied, Paul paid the man and they left. On the way home, they took a ride
in a covered horse-drawn carriage around the park, and Jamie blew him in the
darkness, while he pushed and pulled on her buttplug until she came wetly.



Act Eight: "Ready to Roll" Or "Going Down"

INTERIOR, BUCHMAN LIVING ROOM, MORNING

They slept in on Sunday, and awoke to the Sunday Times. By now, Jamie was
wearing her buttplug to bed, and keeping her opinions about it to herself,
lest she get in even more trouble. It was strange. Today was just like
before; read the paper, have some breakfast, except that her Master had put
this large plug in her bottom, and she had to ask permission to remove it
when she needed to.

By the bed, Paul had rescued her old briefcase, and had commandeered it for
a higher task... to hold all her toys. It now contained her dildo, the
buttplug (if she wasn't wearing it), KY, assorted ropes, her hood, and her
collar and cuffs (her "slut suit", as Paul called it.) It made her feel oddly
comfortable, knowing that a few feet away, available on call, was a whole
different Jamie.

They had a great day. Paul talked excitedly of his next hot film prospects,
of the glories of the city, of the pictures in his head. She called a few
friends and shot the breeze. The very act of doing the commonplace while this
thing filled her up was tremendously exciting.

That night, they ordered Chinese and watched the umpteenth rerun of "Citizen
Kane", with Paul recounting from memory all the missing footage they pulled
to sell more commercial time.

Around nine, they went to bed early, side by side. Two minutes of cuddling,
and she was asleep.

The alarm rang, and she slapped it off. Paul got up and she heard him
rummaging around. The light snapped on.

"Up and at 'em, Slutpuppy!"

Jamie squinted at the clock. "It's midnight, for gosh sakes!" She rolled over
and pulled the covers after her.

("Stealing them like always," thought Paul.) "HEY!" she shrieked, when he
pulled them off her and whacked her ass.

"The Briefcase open, and your snatch better be too, if you know what is good
for you. Bathroom, now."

The look in his eye was fiery, so she hurried on all fours as she had been
taught. He gave her plug a "push and twist" as she went by him. "You've got
seven minutes to shower, dry your hair and present yourself to me. Better
hurry!"

In six, she was fluffed dry, and very wet. He sat her at the makeup table and
proceeded to shave her legs, armpits and pussy, ensuring that the job she had
done Friday was perfect. When it was done, he produced a set of the sheerest
nylons for her, with a garter belt to support them. Paul assisted her in
dressing.

More face makeup was applied, until she looked like a fashion model trying to
look like a whore (or was that a whore trying to look like a fashion model?)
The black heels filled out the outfit, along with her silver nipple clamps.
The last addition was a 1940's-style pillbox hat with a veil, left over from
a Halloween party two years ago.

Paul had forgotten how truly beautiful his wife was until she stood before
him, dressed to the nines. Jamie felt drop-dead sexy, looking at herself in
the mirror. "Kitchen or living room, Master?" She said with a smile.

He clicked on her collar and leash, then turned and stared at her.

"Just your collar tonight, because I know you are going to do what you are
told, and I won't need to force you. I'm counting on you, Jamie. You know
what it is like to have your ass paddled in front of strangers, and you know
what it is like to feel my come down your throat. You also know what it is
like to take your husband's rock-hard dick in your ass, and come from that
alone. So I know you are going to do what you are told. Isn't that right?"

She breathed hard, and swallowed. My Damn, what could he be leading up to?

"Tell me what you are, Jamie."

"I am a cock-sucking whore, Paul. I like big hard vibrators in my pussy, if
they make me come. I like to take your cock in my ass, because it makes me
feel dirty and it makes me juice. I like the feel of nipple clamps on my
breasts, because they make them feel big and naughty. I like being helpless
while you force me to come. I like having you force me to masturbate; it
excites me to get you horny. I want to be your juicy little fuck toy. I want
to do as you tell me, Paul. I want you to be my Master."

He led her by her leash to the front door. While she trembled, he put a
blindfold on her. She froze.

"Tell me we aren't going outside like this," she pleaded.

"Hey, do you trust me?" he whispered in her ear. She heard the door open. He
tugged on her leash, and lead her out into the hallway.

She gasped in relief as he turned her left, away from the elevator, and began
walking, pulling her along, wobbly on the heels. Her mind raced... the only
things this way were three apartments and the building stairs. What was he
doing? Anybody could be out here, even though it was late at night, New York
ran all the time. Somebody coming back from a late movie might see her, or
their friends, always dropping by, might be treated to Jamie Buchman, her
nipples clamped and her pussy dripping being led down the hall on a fucking
LEASH. The thought terrified her, and almost made her come.

Twenty uncertain steps later, she heard the door to the stairway open, and
her Master drew her into the stairwell. Paul pulled off her blindfold and
straitened her hat.

"Down we go," he said.

She was going to stain the nylons before long, she knew it. Her greedy little
snatch was getting ready for the Cock Express. The sexy *shwimmm* of her
stocking-clad legs served only to drive her senses higher. Damn, the feeling
of walking hidden down these stairs, practically naked, nice and juicy, with
her buttplug wiggling in her ass. How the hell had she become this sensual
little cum dumpster? Two days ago she was bitching at Paul about the color of
the wallpaper, and here she was, ready to burst.

Where the hell were they going now?

They reached the bottom level, the parking garage. They had only been down
here a few times before, back when they briefly owned a car. Who needs one in
the big city? "Those arrogant bastards who are too "important" and rich to
take the bus", Paul always said.

The door swung open, and there it was: a candy-apple red Jag. She felt a
shiver go down her back... this was class.

"Get in the back seat, and spread your legs wide. I expect you to make
yourself come for me, and you'd better hurry, before anyone happens to want
to park in that empty space next to us."

Jamie didn't need to be told twice. She lay back in the richness of the
unlocked car, propped her feet over the two front headrests and began
fingering her bald snatch like the next orgasm would be her last. Paul wanted
sexy? OK, then! She roughly squeezed her breasts until the clamps threatened
to pop off.

She moaned like a bitch in heat. Her fingers plunged into her dripping
fun-tunnel and she brought them up to her mouth, sucking them dry like a
two-dollar-a-go Yokohama street whore.

She felt the first flash behind closed eyelids, and then she saw her husband
with his most expensive 35mm camera, snapping away.

"Something for when you are out of town," he joked. Well, she smugly thought,
why not? She came screaming so hard he had to crank up the car windows to
keep it inside. This was a roll he would have to develop himself. Jamie lay
back, mellowly stretching in the back seat of the car. There was a large
pussy-stain on the leather of the back seat. He smiled, mainly because from
where he sat in the front seat, he could see who owned the parking space.

"Alright. Outside!" he ordered, and Jamie roused herself.

He stood her by the front bumper, and whispered into her ear, "Show me what
kind of blow job you give when you're *not* being forced."

She dropped franticly to her knees, running one nylon in the process, as she
ripped down his zipper and fished his dick out of his pants.

She had never noticed how beautiful it was before. She grabbed her hands
around it and began pumping it into her mouth, her wet tongue out and
cushioning it as she struggled to shake hands with the monster. As she sucked
and pumped, she rocked back and forth on her crossed ankles, the backs of the
leather-strapped pumps massaging her swollen, wet pussy. If he wanted a
blowjob, by God, he was going to get one. I'll make him remember this one the
rest of his life!

The thick, hard dick disappeared down the bitch's slim gullet. He imagined he
could actually see her throat bulge as she struggled to grapple with it.
Before long, she had both hands on his naked ass, pushing him forward, as if
this alone would fully sink his throbbing wife-tamer all the way down. She
had seen videos of quite a few blowjobs in the past few days, and this was
the end result of her wet, steamy education.

It couldn't last too long. At the last, she lubed her index finger in her
pussy drippings, and pushed it up her husband's asshole, massaging all the
way. He shuddered, lost position, bounced and came. Eight, count 'em, eight
thick pulses painted Jamie's breasts and smiling face. Thick rivers of it
gunked her down, spraying her hat, her hair, her chin, the car. The red car's
hood was now spotted with white come. He grabbed for the Pentax. The pictures
of her gorgeous face, dripping with his jiz, were incredible enough, but the
five he snapped of his slut-wife scraping it off her face and lovingly
ladling it into her mouth were enough to make him want to do it again. She
sucked her fingers, getting almost all of it, but leaving one thick strand of
it, right down her nose, just so he could enjoy the image. She was right; the
very sight made him hard again.

When his breathing had returned to normal, he ordered her to submit over the
hood of the car. "Better hurry, you little whore. Anybody could catch us at
it, and I'm willing to say you made me do it!" She went ass up in a flash,
and in passing, licked three spots of Paul's come up off the still warm Jag's
hood.

He stuck his finger in the rubber ring of the buttplug and pulled it out with
a pneumatic *whoosh*. Jamie grunted like an animal at the sudden loss, but
thanks to a tube of KY jelly, she didn't have to mourn long. Paul stuffed the
nozzle in her gaping hole, squeezed hard, and tossed the tube into the Jag
next to the buttplug. The next thing she felt was her husband's hard cock
rushing in like a freight train, and the next thing after that was her
orgasm.

Paul felt the most amazing sensation as Jamie's distended anus, now empty of
the large plug, closed down over his cock. For a few thrusts, it was like
fucking cotton candy (you really don't want to know how he knew) and then,
suddenly, he gained traction. By the time he was on the tenth pump, her ass
was grasping at it's new friend, he was coming so hard his balls ached, and
she was flopping around like a careless ConEd electrician on a 440 wire. Paul
rode his wife's shaking body, dumping sperm in her shivering backdoor until
it was leaking out around his cock. (He suddenly remembered the joke about
"Rodeo Sex"; that's where you fuck your wife in the ass, and tell her that
her sister is better. Don't ask... that's another story as well.)

She was crying, the sex was so good. She never imagined that she could
actually fuck, muchless come, under conditions like this, and here she was,
ass boned on the hood of an expensive automobile, dripping like a whore.

The screech of tires caught them both by surprise. They grabbed what they
could, she got her hat and he got the camera. They were through the door and
into the stairwell before the car pulled into the vacant parking space. Paul
kissed his slut wife passionately on the darkened stair, feeling her come
covered body squish slightly in his grip.

"Very good," he admonished her. "But you left your buttplug behind, and are
going to have to pay for it. You're going to get paddled on every landing
from here to the eighteenth floor!"

At every landing, the dutiful slave assumed the position, and her loving
Master gave her a stout whack on the ass. He had to be careful not to dirty
himself with the load of fresh come that was dripping out of her ass all the
way up to their floor.

Waiting where he left it on the eighteenth floor landing was her hood. She
shivered as he ordered her down to her knees, and zipped up the hood tight.
"Nod if you can hear me." Nothing. How about a test? "Jamie, I'm going to
fuck you in Macy's window tomorrow. And Ira is fucking your friend Fran in
the ass."

She remained in position, waiting a tug on her leash. Satisfied she couldn't
hear a thing, he opened the door and gently tugged on her leash, moving her
into the hallway.



Act Nine: "Full Circle" Or "Can I Walk Your Dog?"

INTERIOR, HALLWAY OUTSIDE BUCHMAN APARTMENT, NIGHT

"Well, this is new," said Maggie Conway as Paul walked his new doggie past
her door. The British matron was dressed in black leather, with hip-high
boots and a phallic-looking whip. She took a long drag on her cigarette.

"I figured out what happened when I saw your bondage magazine in with my
stuff." Paul commented. "Here's the $20 for this month. I won't be needing
you to hold them for me now."

"I see my plan worked out. Fuck her ass yet?" the British woman smiled, as if
she were discussing the weather.

"Yep."

"Nice and hard, I hope." She stared at the naked and hooded housewife with a
smile.

"Reamed her out bent over the kitchen cabinets, and again downstairs."

"Good. I've always thought the prissy bitch should be taken down a peg or
two. This doesn't mean I like you all that much, you know. This is just a
little treat for me. May I?" she said, motioning toward the bound woman.

"I did. Why not?"

Maggie Conway crouched, and began fingering the prone blonde, pushing one,
then two, and then three fingers in Jamie's drooling fuckhole, all the while
tugging on the tight nipple clamps. Paul's little slut wife was well trained
by this point; she lifted her ass to give her unknown benefactor better
access, and whimpered behind her mask. Paul watched with a grin as his
helpless wife began rocking gently back and forth in time to the thrusting
fingers. After a moment, her Domme pulled her fingers free, and jammed the
handle of the whip deep in Jamie's cunt. She screamed at the British
invasion.

"Mummm...likes it rough, does she?" The Brit bitch smiled, and began
thrusting the braided leather whip back and forth in the prone housewife's
dripping love chute.

"Ugh, ugh, UGH!" Jamie grunted behind her mask.

"Like it, do you, you little whore?" Maggie hissed, and began spanking the
girl's pale ass in time to the thrusts.

Watching with the practiced eye of a trained Domme, she waited until the
right moment, and roughly yanked the whip from the sobbing girl's cunny, only
to thrust it deep in her ass, which was still wet and lubed from Paul's
earlier cum dump. Mask or no mask, Jamie's scream echoed down the hall as she
came, and came, and came.

"I certainly don't want that whip back now. You may keep it." She gave a
wicked pull on Jamie's nipple clamps, watching the moaning housewife shake.
"Let her wonder who gave it to her."

"You know, I don't think she's going to wonder all that much." Paul unlocked
his door and tugged on Jamie's leash, watching the whip waggle obscenely half
in her asshole as she trundled, sobbing into her mask, into their apartment.

Paul turned and caught the door just as Maggie Conway was closing it.

"By the way," he called over his shoulder as he followed his little Slutpuppy
inside, "You are going to want to have your car washed, REAL soon."

"What an odd fellow!" Maggie said, fingering her wet snatch. "Humm, I still
have his spare key. I wonder if he needs someone to walk his dog?"

-------------------Ends--------------------

Tag:

Jamie is down in the parking garage in heels, cuffs and collar, scrubbing the
leather upholstery in the back seat of the Conway Jag, while Maggie, in Domme
outfit, whips her red ass and curses.

Music up and under closing credits:

"Don't know why, I fuck you like I do.
Don't know who can tie me down as tight as you.

Show me all your dildos.

I'll show you most of mine.

I know you thought you chose this,
But you're really screwed this time.

Come, on take my hand,
And hold on while I ream out your rear.

Mad About Fucking You, Baby, Uh Huh"


    

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