Asexual Wife Whores Herself Out Ch. 02

I'm running through a desert, lumbering gray things in pursuit. Claws catch in the hem of my dress and I fall headlong. The inhuman beasts shred my clothes and their huge distorted hands seize my wrists and ankles. They lift me, splaying my limbs, and the most monstrous giant stabs its huge phallus deep--

Aaaaaahhh!!!

I awake with a cry, flailing at the air. Where am I? Who is this ageing man propped up on his elbow looking at me? This isn't my bedroom! What's going on?

Memories flood back: yesterday I gave myself to Theodore Long. He's ready to grant my husband a contract that will make our fortune, but the price is my serving as his plaything.

I must discipline myself to be pleasing to him, so I smile. "Good morning, sir."

"Hello Arabella. Coffee?"

"Yes please, sir."

He presses a button on a bedside table, after which he starts toying with my nipples. Sexual contact before breakfast -- indeed, before dinner -- is new to me, but I smile as compliantly as I can.

The three girls I saw yesterday in servants' uniforms enter, and I jump in shock at how they're now dressed: bra, panties and stockings. Only the black girl has the apron from her maid's uniform over the top of this, and she carries a tray with a pot. The aroma of coffee spreads as she fills one of the two cups. Only one? She hands it to her employer, then returns to the other two standing by the far wall.

All three girls strip off everything except their stockings. They get to keep something on, while I'm completely nude. And it's horribly obvious what he wants from me next.

I have no more interest in female flesh than male. But dating men and then marrying one, reassuringly normal behavior, at least brought the comfort of social acceptance. I've never considered dalliance with a woman because it offered me neither wealth nor status. Now that lesbianism looms, it's worse than servicing a man because I'm unaccustomed to it.

And they're domestics, the bottom of the social scale, scarcely better than addicts who sleep on the streets. Until now I've only been with men of substance, whose status was some compensation. To be pawed by a woman of the lowest classes -- ughhh!

And the offer of coffee was just to taunt me with false hope. I'm going to have to put myself through this without even some caffeine to buck me up.

He gives me a little push toward the three young women, whose hands are just barely touching each others' bodies. Trying to stay calm I get off the bed and stand facing them.

"Carla. Entertain our guest."

The white girl sashays toward me and my hands come up, defending my chest, as if to push her away. Her bosoms press into my palms as she lays both hands on my face. My head twitches back, but I restore it to its place. Her fingertips play with my cheeks, then the corners of my mouth. She slips a hand behind my neck and leans in. My eyes slam shut and my lips draw themselves in between my teeth.

I mustn't rebel. I force my lips back out, and even manage to pucker them a little. It starts with a light kiss, then another, then one that presses a little more firmly. I try to remember how to do this. Gordon, content to pierce me now and then, has hardly offered a kiss since our wedding.

"Open up, Arabella."

I freeze in horror for a moment, then choose obedience. I lower my jaw, as does Carla, and her mouth moves again mine. I endure it until she breaks off. She moves to my right side, fingers tracing my collarbone, and starts kissing my shoulder. Her hand is on my upper back, the lightest caresses, barely brushing here and there. The maddening tickle meandering unpredictably over my skin sends shudders through me.

"Do you like it when Carla enjoys you, Arabella?"

"Y-yuh, yes sir," I lie. "I.... it makes me quiver, sir." That last statement's strictly true.

He nods. "Mary."

The black maid advances with a cruel smile. I've never thought myself racist, but only white men have ever touched me. My skin crawls at the prospect of dark flesh on my own.

Something presses into my back -- the wall. I've been retreating.

"Arabella...." Mr Long coaxes.

I take a deep breath and step forward until the white girl is beside me again. Now I'm within Mary's reach. My arms yearn to fend her off, but I push them down by my sides. With Carla still gently fondling me, the negress grabs my breasts. She subjects them to crude, energetic groping: squeezing, stroking, bouncing them in her hands, lightly slapping the sides to make them wobble. She rubs and twists both my nipples, and the resulting sensations make me dance on the spot trying to keep my footing.

Then she slides her right hand up to my mouth and starts running a fingertip from side to side. To demonstrate my obedience, without awaiting his instruction I part my lips again. She toys with them, feather touch worse than Carla's on my back. Then she kisses me.

"Tongues."

Suppressing the urge to vomit I comply. Mary launches a vigorous assault, licking furiously. Her tongue shoots all the way along mine to its base then back again, ravaging different parts, sometimes probing other places in my mouth before returning. It's all I can do to keep my own in place while she puts me through this hell.

Then she takes her place behind my left shoulder and strokes down the small of my back to my rear, which she starts to toy with. The oriental girl steps up in front of me, and it's French kissing again. Her exploration is less rapid but if anything more thorough, tongue-tip probing everywhere.

Standing there I have to suffer a prolonged ordeal. The hands of the three servant girls are all over every inch of me. He has them all take several turns kissing and fondling my chest, and between these they once again merge their mouths with mine.

Next Mr Long commands me to lie on my back on the bed and spread myself wide. As I hold this position, the three maids humiliate me between the legs, always with one touching the inside of each leg while the middle girl rubs my feminine folds, occasionally pushing a fingertip inside me. They keep changing positions for different sluts to access different places.

After that, it's scissoring. I stay on my back as each of them rubs her vulva against mine, her torso nearly upright, then lies on top of me in the missionary position. I have to kiss them with tongues again as they squirm on top of me. Then they kiss down my body, nibbling my nipples, down my belly. They ply the my inner thighs with kisses, then hold my labia apart to finger and lick within.

The white and black girls end by pushing their tongues deep into me. The Asian maid goes last, and really takes her time over my loins. She seems to know the most sensitive spots around and within my vulva. The feeling of her touch is intense, even harder to ignore than what the other two did to me. I exert myself to stay silent and still, but her rubbing and the flicks of her tongue give me no rest. Despite my attempts at self-control my body keeps jerking and twisting, gasps escaping my mouth.

When she massages inside me with one finger and licks my clitoris it's simply the worst, and I'm unable to suppress cries of disgust. She keep me in this state for an unbearable eternity. When she finally lifts her face from me I'm running with sweat, breathing labored as if I've been sprinting.

Sheepishly she turns to Mr. Long, neck bowed, eyes lowered. "I'm very sorry, sir, but I can't get her open or wet. I've tried all my tricks, and...."

"Never mind, Jang-Mi," he replies with a smile. "I'm sure you did your best. You made her give me a most entertaining display. The noises you got out of her!"

"I live to please my master," she murmurs.

Not to be outdone, I say: "Please sir, thank you for allowing me the privilege of being a source of amusement for you, sir. My body is a piece of meat for you to enjoy in any way you like, sir."