Levirate Customs

"Dana, the show's over. You're welcome to come to bed."

Dana guiltily snatched her fingers from her pussy with a whimper, and made her way to the far side of the bed.

Lights out, and to all a good night.

Dana's Turn

The next morning, Sunday, started as I expect many suburban Sundays do, at least on the surface. After I showered, I went into the living room and immersed myself in the news and picked out what sports I wanted to watch. After a bit, Carol and Dana shyly came out, Carol dressed in a tight t-shirt and short-shorts, with Dana in a miniskirt and tubetop, and they set about making breakfast, which turned out to be a Denver omelette. With a bit of hot sauce, it was quite good.

I was about to comment negatively on Carol's shorts, until I saw that the stitching for the center-line seam between her legs had been entirely picked open--if she stood with her knees together it was a modest garment, but if she moved her knees apart just a bit, everything opened up nicely. "Access," right?, with a splash of "nervous." I took an opportunity to run my hand up the gap, which earned a little cry of protest, but I found moisture in the well. Good girl.

Regardless, the tension was there just below the surface. Carol was feeling used, as she should, and Dana was feeling needy, as she should. I couldn't see anything at all wrong with the situation. In a few minutes, the task-management app pinged, and they were off into the duties of the morning.

During the day I got to witness the prescribed edging. They were both living in the ideal mix of shame, pleasure, need, and submission. In the late afternoon, when chores were done, Carol was reading Different Loving, and Dana was studying Joy of Sex.

When bedtime came, I had Dana lie in the middle of the bed and begin to edge. I lay next to her, on the left side of the bed, and had Carol, as "fluffer," suck me. Dana was trembling. I tried to persuade her that it wasn't fear that made her tremble, but eagerness, like a racehorse at the gate, and I think I succeeded a little. When I was ready, I rolled onto Dana but motioned to Carol to wait bedside. "OK, Carol, take my dick in your hand and put it into Dana's cunt." She looked at me with abject shame--what mother would assist in her daughter's deflowering? But her hand held my dick in line with the target, and stroked the tip a little up-and-down to open Dana's vulva. I covered Dana's mouth with my own, and plunged forward as Carol snatched her hand out from between us.

Dana gave a cry which my mouth swallowed. She made a little funny crabwise backstroke motion to try to crawl away from the pain. With my weight on her and the barrier of the headboard, the effort was totally ineffective. She began an instinctive Lamaze-style panting to surf over the pain, and I waited for it to pass. Finally she relaxed and looked up at me with "Oh, my! Am I a woman now?" I assured her that yes, she was a woman now. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Carol wiping tears away.

When things stabilized a bit, I slowly began to stroke into what was, as far as I knew, the first virgin pussy of my life. I had underestimated Dana's arousal, for she was soon begging to cum. I refused, purely for form's sake (Rule 2), but I was on the ragged edge myself and had to pause frequently to avoid blowing my load before I had fully enjoyed the experience. Nonetheless, enough was soon enough. I shifted into overdrive for three or four strokes and emptied my balls into her with a groan. Dana felt it, and she shouted "Oh, thank you Daddy!" and went in to spasms of her own orgasm. I collapsed on top of her, totally spent, her arms around me, she murmuring into my ear "Thank you, Daddy, thank you, thank you."

Wow.

I rolled off of Dana, she spooned up behind me, and I was out for the count. Carol turned out the lights and crawled into the far side of the bed.

So You Want to be a Bimbo

So, Dana, you want to be a bimbo? That's not just lying around on the couch and eating chocolate bon-bons, young lady. There's work to be done.

I dragged out my tablet and had her sit next to me on the couch. She started to run her fingernails up my thigh, and I told her to behave herself. She pouted.

I showed her a photo on my tablet, a woman in maybe her 20's. "What do you think of her face?"

"Meh."

Another photo. "And her?"

"Wow! Sexy!"

"It's the same woman, without and with makeup."

"Holy smokes!"

"And this pair?"

"OK, OK, I get it! Now what?"

"'Now what' is that applying cosmetics is another new hobby for you. There are tons of video tutorials on the Net. Study and practice. If you don't like the results of an effort, tear it off and try again. If you do like the results, tear it off and try again. It's called "perfect practice makes perfect." If it takes less than an hour to 'put your face on' in the morning, you're cheating. Carol, you're the coach and art critic. You need to exert yourself in this department as well--be a good example!"

In a few days, boxes of cosmetics began to arrive at the front door and on my credit cards. Dana's old bedroom was converted into a kind of "artist's studio." The results in the first week or two were not memorable, but the two women began to get the hang of it and the results followed. I reminded them that the desired result was not "subtle, tasteful, and understated."

The next exercise was, well, exercise. If Dana was going to get "upgrades" in the boob department, she needed to develop back and shoulder muscles to support them, and similar development wouldn't hurt Carol's natural rack either. Digging around in the far corners of the basement I found an exercise rowing machine and a treadmill, and had Dana help me drag them to a more accessible location. After dusting them off, I showed the two women how to work the rowing machine and prescribed 20 minutes a day, each (put it on the task app!).

Likewise, it was time for Dana to learn how to walk like a bimbo. Plodding forward like a soldier at the end of a long march wasn't it. I was looking for something like a swagger, not a catwalk stomp. Roll the shoulders, roll the hips--everything should be moving in different directions at the same time. When the left shoulder rolls forward and up, the right shoulder rolls down and back, and the right hip rolls forward and up. Wave those boobs in their faces! Some call it "doing the 10 and 2": when the left shoulder comes forward to the 10 o'clock position, the opposite hip comes forward to 2 o'clock. The "old wiggle and jiggle!" Study Lauren Bacall's motions in the memorable "Hello, Slim" moment in To Have and Have Not, and exaggerate them. So up on the treadmill! I leaned a full-length mirror against the wall in front of the treadmill, so she could watch herself, admonished Carol to coach her, and prescribed 20 minutes a day, in heels.

And constant Kegels for both of them, even while doing other chores.

Testing

Things had been peaceful for a couple of weeks on the home front, but I suspected that appearance was deceptive. If I understood Carol's mind, it was about time for her to test me: was I really her owner, or just a cardboard replica?

Sure enough, one day I came home to find the bed unmade, and dishes in the sink. When I asked Carol, she gave a half-shrug and said that she "just didn't get around to it."

I opened my arms and said that I understood. She came in for the hug, but I grabbed her by the hair, bent her over so that her head was at my waist, and dragged her, stumbling and protesting, down the stairs to the basement. When she realized our destination, the protesting became pleading and promising. I hauled open the door to the dungeon and flipped on the lights. In the past weeks I had done some reconnaissance in the dungeon, and was now tolerably familiar with what it offered.

Still holding her hair as a leash, I tossed Carol laterally across the central table, face down, her feet on the floor to one side, and her head hanging over the side on the other. Still holding her hair, I grabbed one of the many leather straps which festooned the edges of the table and flipped it around the back of her neck, tightening it, securing her in place. She was now effectively helpless, but, just for excess, I added cuffs to her wrists and ankles and secured them to the table as well. I went back and closed the door.

Deep breath, and calm down. "OK, Carol. You said you wanted to know that there were 'consequences for not getting your jobs done.' You didn't get your jobs done, offered no exculpation, and will now experience consequences."

I flipped up her skirt to expose her unpantied bottom. By this point her pleading had become simple anticipatory blubbering. I walked over to the wall and picked up the meanest-looking cane I could find. While I had never caned anyone, the presence of the implements would lead one to believe that Carol was no stranger to their application, so she might have high expectations. I took a couple of experimental swishes with the cane in my hand, the sound of which brought renewed pleading from Carol. Good luck with that--I was damned if I was going to disappoint her with a halfway effort, and I wasn't going to let the ghost of my kid brother show me up!

When I figured that she'd had enough time to dread the coming punishment, I stepped back, checked that I had enough room for my backswing, and gave her the first stroke across the ass with everything I had. The results were electric! The leather straps on her arms and legs creaked and groaned with the strain as she reacted to the pain, kicking and hauling, and the shriek she gave was deafening. She pissed herself. Not bad for a first try, old man!

By the time I was done she had collected three stripes on her bottom and another three on the backs of her thighs. I was learning how position myself to make sure that both buttocks, or both thighs, received equal damage from each stroke of the cane. She had screamed herself hoarse. She was going to have a hard time sitting or walking for a while.

I undid the straps at her ankles and wrists, and finally the strap across the back of her neck. I gently helped her slide bonelessly off the table to the floor into the center of her piss-puddle, where she lay, sobbing, her hands over her face.

"All right, Carol, you have experienced 'consequences.' If that was not a sufficient effort on my part, you let me know, OK?, and I'll do better next time. When you're ready, clean up the mess you've made here, then come upstairs and clean yourself up. As I recall, you've got a bed to make and some dishes to clean before you start dinner, and you need to make sure the task-management app is up to date." I walked out of the dungeon, closing the door behind me, and went upstairs. Dana poured me a Scotch, then sat next to me on the couch, kissed my fingertips, put her hand on my thigh, and said nothing.

An hour later I was almost ready to go check on Carol when I heard the door to the dungeon open. She crawled up the stairs on hands and knees, across the carpet, and into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.

The rest of the evening passed in almost normal fashion, though Carol moved stiffly. She asked permission to eat her dinner standing up, which I refused, and when she lowered herself to her chair, the gasp she gave was gratifying.

After dinner, and the kitchen was cleaned up, Carol came out to where I was necking and pawing on the couch with Dana, and lowered herself to her knees on the carpet. That in itself was an epoch: she had never knelt before me except when needed for the task at hand, such as scrubbing the floor, or giving a blowjob. But this was pure obeisance.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry, Sir. It won't happen again." Her voice was still hoarse and raspy, but had recovered enough to be understandable.

"You're forgiven."

"But Sir, I have a confession."

"Wait. Before you go on, edge."

She winced, but she opened her thighs, and her fingers dipped to their task. In a couple of minutes she said "Sir, I'm there."

"Then continue."

In what follows I have straightened out her sentences and edited out the moans and gasps as she held herself at the edge, weaving back and forth between the ecstasy just out of reach, and the pain in her lower body.

"Sir, back when I said 'All that I am and all that I have are yours,' I lied. I kept back my heart."

Ah yes, the wall.

"I judged you, held it against you--when you beat him up, my...my ex, what you did to him. I thought you were a brutal man, that you liked hurting people. But I was wrong. Now I see that it was what you did for him. It changed his life for the better.

"This afternoon changed how I think of you. I started by thinking that you were a brutal man, that the beating was something you were doing to me, but I was wrong. Lying on the floor in my piss, pain everywhere, I came to see that it was what you had done for me.

"If it's not too late, Sir, I offer you my heart."

She put her forehead on the carpet between my feet, still edging.

I gave the tableau a minute, enough to have her wonder whether she'd lost her chance, then "Up. You may stop edging."

She knelt up, winced again, and wiped away her tears.

I reached over to touch her cheek and she cringed, as though expecting to be struck.

"I accept your apology, and your heart. However, this episode shows that you had forgotten that you are 'property.' Within the next week I want you to propose something that will serve as a permanent and aggressive reminder that you are owned, and who owns you."

When she came to me with her proposals, I shouldn't have been surprised.

The first measure she offered was to have my initials tattooed on the pads of the three center fingers of her right hand. As she put it, any time she edged, it would be as though I were touching her.

Second, she proposed a clit ring, larger than "dainty and discreet," big enough to secure her with. Every time she touched her clit, she would have to touch the ring, which would remind her of her submission, and there were endless possibilities to be had by attaching a leash to it.

It was the third part that really surprised me. She asked me to make her destitute, to take from her every dime she had, the house, the car, the credit cards, the annuity, every penny. Her car was to be sold. The house would go into my name. The credit cards were to be replaced with prepaid cards or debit cards, her reasoning being that the little rituals of having to present receipts, to ask for the cards to be refilled, would be continual reminders of her dependence. Every action outside the house would remind her of the very short financial leash. She wouldn't be able to buy a pack of gum without being reminded of who controlled her cash, and who controlled her. She would be naked to the world in a whole new sense. Her back would be to the financial wall.

She would be a chattel in what used to be her own home, owning nothing, paying for her room-and-board with her body. She would live her days in fear that one misstep would deliver her to...whatever horrors her imagination had conjured up.

Over the next several weeks, she signed dozens of papers which, bit by bit, made her penniless. She didn't need to know that I had added a line to my will which returned it all to her should I predecease her.

Entr'acte

Fast forward six weeks.

Dana's new DD's were settling in nicely, and her wardrobe was catching up, with lots of stretch and cling and cleavage. She had fully internalized the "10 and 2" when walking. Watching her move was likely to cause dislocated eyeballs in any male, and some females--the eye had too many places to watch, and motion was everywhere.

She was dissatisfied with the available DD bras, though. "Molded cups" were a bore. Bullet bras and cone bras were a step in the right direction, but not enough skin was showing for her taste. Hemi-semi-demi bras just led to foldover, with the nipples pointing straight down. Not sexy at all. She took to experimenting with an electric hot knife, and found success by cutting a 4" diameter circle out of the center of each cup in a bullet bra, leaving enough cup to support and project the boob, while exposing the nipple, aureole, and enough surrounding skin to be provocative. The result yielded spectacular 'pokies,' and with the right top, her aureoles were unmistakable.

I trained her to keep her lips parted, to incite thoughts of oral sex in any male she met. I gave her a kind of all-day sucker, the round head being pink plastic instead of candy. When she tried to talk with it in her mouth, she drooled and sounded stupid. A perfect bimbo accessory.

Carol's tattoos and piercing healed up well. While her clit piercing was fresh, I made it a point to make enthusiastic use of her asshole. I had known that both women were working toward having a butt-plug in place 24/7, and were trying to like it, so I was pleased when Carol was able to cum from straightforward anal sex, with only a little help from her fingers, yet in full compliance with Rule 2. When Carol came, Dana applauded with a "Woo Hoo!" cheer from the other side of the bed.

"The wall" was utterly gone.

Rise And Shine

I was waking up in bed. I knew that because I had that "not asleep any more" feeling. Clever, right? As I battled my way upward through the cotton batting in my mind, I began to assemble the shards of consciousness into some sense of reality.

I was in the bed, lying on my right side, facing the side of the bed. A Soft, Warm Body, identity to be determined, was spooned up behind me. I became aware that there was a Hand gripping my morning wood. A quick inventory confirmed that both my hands were empty. Tentatively, then, I concluded that the Hand belonged to the Soft, Warm Body.

I must have stirred, because the Soft, Warm Body emitted what might have been either a chuckle or a growl. The Hand used my erection as a lever to roll me onto my back. I became aware of scurrying feet, and a Mouth closed over the head of my dick. Since it was anatomically unlikely that the Mouth belonged to the same body as the Hand, it became likely that I was being double-teamed, the victim of a conspiracy. "Et tu?" There are worse ways to die.

The Soft, Warm Body slid down the bed, and I reached the point where I could pry open an eyelid and take stock. OK, the Soft, Warm Body was Carol, and the Mouth belonged to Dana. They went into tag-team mode, deep-throating me in quick succession, with a couple of Carol's fingers around the base of my dick to control the alternation without interfering with full penetration.

Back and forth they volleyed, and it would take a better man than I to hold out for long. I became aware that, in addition to their oral ministrations, both women were masturbating furiously. Finally, a knowing finger reached up behind my balls and pressed on my perineum, which triggered instant detonation.

In rapid succession, Carol caught the first blast in her mouth, flipped my dick into Dana's mouth, and yanked on the clit ring, which set off her orgasm. Dana caught the second and third shots, then rolled off the bed onto the carpet and brought herself off. Both women were giggling hysterically through mouthfuls of semen. "Quick on the trigger," indeed. I don't think I ever envisioned that Rule 2 would lead to my servicing two women with one orgasm, but I couldn't find any fault in it, except maybe that today was a work day, and I had to find a way to medevac myself to the bathroom.

The Miracle of Television

It had been a tough day at the office. I had lost a case I was sure I was going to win, and won a case I was sure I was going to lose. The good news was that a late hearing was canceled, so I got home earlier than usual, but I was still one worn-out shyster when I parked the car in the garage. I opened the door from the garage to the house--and froze. Unexpected sounds were coming from the living room, which was off to my right. Silently, I closed the door from the garage behind me, and stepped softly up the short hallway to the living room.