Sausages for the Slave Ch. 05

No joy there. So I had a go at playing the system. "Alexa, I understand, thank you."

Seemed as if that satisfied her, and she shut up. I cleared the breakfast things, washed up and tidied my wife's bedroom. Then I made myself a cup of coffee and sat down to drink it. Alexa seemed good with that -probably didn't know what gardening meant.

After ten minutes of peace I set out to do the gardening job. All quiet from Alexa. I enjoy gardening. I got the little weeding fork in the garage and set about removing the offending dandelion what was the cause of my upcoming afternoon session in the T-bar. It was big and bright yellow and smack in the middle of our little 20 foot by 15 foot patch of lawn in front of the house. I dug under it as far as I could to get out the root and got most of it, but not all. Which means it will be back in a few weeks. I always check systematically for any more weeds about to pop up and flower. I move in a line from the front fence up to the front window and down till I have walked slowly over the whole of the grassed area. Every time I do this I will easily spot ten weeds on their way and remove them. I'm resigned to the fact that if I do it again three days later I'll find ten more. I am very aware that there are selective weed killers out there, but, as my wife reminds me, we have to do our bit to save the planet don't we, and anyway, since I am here all day why shouldn't I be our ecologically friendly selective weed killer? No answer to that.

I was bent over beside the fence tugging at a stubborn dandelion root when I felt a large hand slide up between my legs and a thumb poke me hard in the asshole through the thin nylon of my shorts. I jumped up in surprise. The hand stayed between my legs, reaching under and squeezing my balls.

"Sensitive, aren't we?"

It was our over friendly neighbour, Tom Berovich. He was over friendly to me anyway. He's an accountant and knows the value of a dollar as they say. He's prepared to pay my wife a few dollars for access to me now and again. She likes to rent me out. Thinks it's good for my attitude. Let's her pat my ass and say 'how's our little rent boy today,' after I've been ass fucked by Tom. Tom is a married man, pillar of our little gated community and all that, but everybody seems happy that he can buy a piece of my ass when the mood takes him, including his wife. I suppose we are all nice and liberal with that now. Be what you want to be. Fuck who you want to fuck, and all that. Maybe his wife is happy that he's fucking me instead of her, because he has a very rough way of going about it. Or he might be nice with her as long as she lets him take his animal side out on me. Who knows?

"Been a little while since I bought a slice of your time, isn't it?" he said as he steadily and firmly stroked his hand up and down in the crack of my ass while I stood still, with him behind me just the other side of our little fence. I now had a very obvious erection and a stain of precum blossomed and spread over the front of my tight nylon shorts.

"Yes Sir."

"We will put that right one of these days. Back to work with you, boy. We don't want Mary to find you have been slacking off and getting a hard on when you should be minding your Mistresses' garden. I like your outfit by the way. Very fetching." He had slid his hand around to my front and was squeezing and stroking my erect penis as he said this.

"Yes Sir."

"Tell Mary, I want a session soon. Say she owes me."

"Yes Sir."

I stayed facing away from him and, once he dismissed me, with a dismissive tap on the ass, I continued walking slowly up the garden, pretending to look for weeds. Actually, I just didn't want him to see the spreading stain of precum. He'd tell my wife, and daytime erections earn a punishment. No excuses. The two of them do meet up regularly for business as well neighbourly reasons. He does the books for the various on the side enterprises my wife has got going. They are probably actually in business together, them and the corporate lawyer lady cross the road. She whose car I'm going to wash shortly. A lawyer, and accountant and an IT whizz, the perfect modern business team, with the bonus of the slave on the side; the original bit on the side, the no strings attached fun toy, the opportunity to let off a little steam, to help keep the creative juices flowing. That's me; the corporate fucktoy. Should get more bragging rights for your start up than having a ping pong table in the lobby or whatever the latest Google staff relations gimmick is.

As soon as Tom had gone on his merry way I quickly got out the lawn mower and cut the grass. Took all of five minutes; gardening job done by mid morning. I went back into the house through the garage.

Alexa pounced. It was like I'd triggered a trip wire as soon as I went in the door "Slave, report your activity."

"Alexa, I have completed the gardening."

"Good boy." "Slave, your next task is to wash Mrs. Galsworthy's car. Acknowledge."

"Alexa, I understand, thank you." I've got the hang of Alexa now. I was planning to do that job now anyway. First I logged the completion of the gardening on the tablet in my room. Alexa stayed quiet. Her's is a simple little mind it would seem.

Mrs Galsworthy lives directly across the road from us. She's single, mid-forties or maybe a little older; very upright and formal, lawerly. She works from home mostly, some sort of corporate law advisory consultant. Always dashing off to meetings, leaping on a plane etc. Here's the kicker; because she works with my wife on occasion and as I said is probably actually in business with her, she gets to have a go of me as well. I'm probably a joint asset of whatever business they have set up, listed in the annual returns under 'Miscellaneous assets', after the photocopier and the computer; slave. Just like that, nobody would notice, think it means a slave terminal for the computer. No doubt Mrs Galsworthy - I don't actually know her first name - gives my wife the best of legal/corporate advice in relation to her various little online ventures and about how much she can do outside of the day job without getting into trouble. But the same Mrs Galsworthy has a kinky side to her. While I'm lent out to her for straight up obvious things like washing the car my service is intended to fulfil Mrs. Galsworthy's kinky need too. She enjoys watching me wash the car, as a sort of foreplay before the main event.

Key to the performance is me getting all wet and my white nylon shorts and singlet becoming absolutely see-through and sodden. I wash the car in her driveway while she sits on a little folding chair just inside the open garage door, observing me work. She has a pitcher of ice tea and a glass set up on a wooden box beside her and drinks from it steadily. I assume it's only ice tea. I have to make sure when I am first hosing down the car that half the water splashes back on me - front and back. Not hard to do, it happens anyway. She'll say something like, 'Oh my boy, you've got yourself all wet. Turn around and let me see you.' I oblige, giving her a full-on view of my rising penis in front and the crack of my ass at the back through the now transparent shorts. Then I have to slosh warm sudsy water from a bucket with a sponge, mostly to the roof or the car. I've to make sure to press myself up against the car side windows as I reach over to sponge the roof while facing her across the car. That way she can see my balls and penis clearly through the tight wet shorts as they are pressed and rubbed against the door window glass.

This day she had on a typical yellow summer dress, all flouncy and loose and was wearing those shiny, reflective sunglasses that didn't let you see if she was looking at you or not. She didn't attempt to hide her actions as she openly rubbed her crotch through the light organza material of the dress.

"Good boy," she said breathily, "do the roof again, slower this time."

Like I was doing slow motion in a movie, I slid the saturated sponge around the roof of the car again in exaggerated swirls, water and suds cascading down the sides of the car and through my vest and shorts. I made sure to gyrate my crotch slowly in time hard up against the driver's door window as I did so. I could clearly hear the scratching of her fingernails against the dress as she rubbed faster and faster.

"Enough," she said, once she was satisfied, taking a long final swallow of her glass of ice tea. "That must have been thirsty work. Come in back and I'll give you a drink."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Mrs Galsworthy retreated into the gloom of the back of the garage and turned to face me, leaning her butt against a work bench on the back wall, her arms akimbo and her legs apart. I came to a stop directly in front her with my eyes lowered, lighting on the view of her heaving breasts as she took deep steady breaths like she'd exerted herself or something.

"Kneel"

I knelt down, my face upturned right in front of her lower belly. Looking up now, I could see her face above her overhanging breasts, looking outwards. I could see her eyes behind her sunglasses unfocussed and distant. Her breathing was becoming uneven. It was obvious she was working herself up into a very aroused state. In a swift movement she lifted her floral dress up and dropped the front of it over my head. Suddenly I found myself inside her dress sharing that most intimate space with her bare smooth thighs. It was warm and stuffy in there, the small space filled with the musky scent of her sexual excitement. She moved forward a little so that her thighs touched the sides of my head. She flexed her thighs and they gripped my head hard. Her pussy was right at my mouth. No knickers. Her skin was bathed in an orange hue from the light filtering through her dress. She had shaved her pussy save for a small tuft of hair near where her labia began to part. My nose was touching the tuft of pubic hair. I breathed in her hot damp musky smell. There were rules. There was a procedure to be followed. I mustn't try to touch there, not at first. I waited till her thighs eased their grip and began moving slightly forward and back brushing the sides of my face in line with the gentle thrusts of her pelvis; forward and back. She was enjoying the moment, pressing forward till my nose bumped and rubbed at the top of her pussy, then away again. She was teasing herself, her breathing quickening with each thrust. The glowing orange skin of her belly above her pussy was as taut as a drum from all the tea she had taken.

I could see some moistness inside the lips of her pussy and was aware of my penis hardening to a raging erection inside my wet, transparent shorts. Her hands brushed the back of my head through the material of the dress. It was time. I blew gently on her sex, my lips millimetres from her pussy lips, still not touching. I directed the waft of air up and down, blowing hard into the cleft which concealed her clitoris each time my lips passed it. I heard her let out a ragged breath and could see her abdomen swell as she inhaled and then shuddered as a wave of pleasure went through her. Her hands gripped the back of my head harder and pushed my open mouth against her pussy. I had hardly time to clamp my mouth over her before the hot, strong flow of her pee poured into my mouth. I gulped and swallowed continuously to keep up and not to gag, breathing through my nose. I thought of the size of the jug of iced tea as I kept glugging down her warm pee. Soon the flow eased to a trickle. I swallowed the last drops. She moved her crotch back from my mouth and I used my lips to wipe away the few droplets clinging to her little tuft pubic hair, tugging on the tuft as I did so. She moaned and kneaded the back of my head with her hands, her fingers digging into my hair, pressing me harder to her pussy. I could now taste her pee. My mouth was full of the rich, strong, steaming scent. I nearly gagged. This was a smell and taste I had experienced many times but could never get used to. She eased my head back from her so I could purse my lips and gently blow on her pussy again. She breathed heavily, almost a groan, and caressed my head with her hands through the material of her dress.

"Kiss me," she said. I placed gentle kisses all over her pussy, fast urgent, pressing.

"Do more...more."

I started tonguing her, pressing my tongue deeper and deeper inside her moist tangy folds. She wallowed in the pleasure of it, small moans escaping her lips. When, after about a minute, she pulled my head higher with her hands I knew she was close. I started to tongue her clitoris with quick short licks. She came very quickly, giving off a few strange short gulping yelps and then let out a long shuddering exhalation. I could feel her go limp and pull away from me. She was done. Without any ceremony, she quickly lifted her skirt back over my head and pulled it down in front of my face, like a stage fire curtain dropping. I was momentarily blinded by the adjustment to daylight, even in the back of the garage. As my eyes focused, it was as if I'd imagined what went before. A bit like in those time travel movies. One second I was deep in that most intimate of human sexual spaces, the next I was kneeling in some garage feeling a bit stupid.

Bang! I felt an unmerciful wallop hit me on one side of my head. I could just about hear her dismiss me through the roaring in my ear. "Get up and go home," she said, turning and heading in through the door from the garage to her house. She never looked back and quickly closed the door behind her, leaving me still kneeling there my belly full of her pee and my lips and nose caked in her sticky pussy juice, my head still ringing from the slap. This is always how our strange little interludes come to a close.

She clearly doesn't want me around as she comes down from her high. She probably lies down on a couch inside and relives her good time over again. The unnecessary violence I get to suffer at the end must be some sort of puritan hangover. It's as if I was responsible, like it was me that made her do those disgusting things - as she might categorize them. That schizophrenic approach is also displayed whenever we meet accidently, either outside the house or on the street if I'm shopping. She won't look at me, won't meet my eyes, just hurries past head down or turned to one side. If I'm with the wife, she'll chat to her like I'm not there. My wife plays along. Often they have a big conversation about business, or the latest news and I'm just stood there by my wife's side like I'm a dog. All that is missing is the collar and the lead. I suppose Mrs Galsworthy wants to believe that she doesn't know this disgusting person.

Now Tom is the opposite. He'll go out of his way to accost me, and do a bit of joshing, like we're mates. "Getting up to anything naughty these days," he'll say, or, "I see the wife has let you off the leash for a day. Must be doing something right, eh?" That sort of stuff. I smile back at him doing the 'aw shucks' routine. Even though we both know that just a few days previously he was violently butt fucking me like I was some sort of inanimate blow-up sex toy. And that he'd be doing it again soon, and more. Different strokes and all that.

I crossed the road and went back inside out house without anybody else seeing or commenting on my risqué outfit.

"Slave, report your activity." I was ready for her this time.

"Alexa, I have completed the car wash for Mrs Galsworthy."

"Good boy."

"Slave, it is time for you to have your lunch and prepare your wife's evening meal. Acknowledge." And I did. Then I went and logged off the car washing on the tablet.

As a little slap down for my wild witty moment at breakfast time my wife told me I was to forage for my lunch. That has a very specific meaning in our household. It means I go to the food waste bin and root though it for stuff to eat for my lunch. A bit of low grade domestic dumpster diving. I have to put the foraged stuff in a dog bowl and eat it off the floor, dog-like, without using my hands. I must place the bowl in the corner of the kitchen under one of the cameras so its content is recorded. I have to fill the bowl, can't get away with just putting a few crumbs in the bottom. Then I have to eat all that is in the bowl. After a few early successful cheats on my part a clear procedure was established. I have to fill the bowl before I start preparing any food for my wife's dinner, or lunch if it's a weekend. I got away with chopping a few extra bits of lettuce and salad mixes in the early days and popping them into the bin for a few minutes before transferring them to the bowl. Not anymore. The procedure guarantees that anything I forage for is there since yesterday evening's dinner, plus maybe a few bits from breakfast that morning.

I pull open the bin cupboard door and open the food bin. Not too bad. The skin of six half oranges are on top, buried under a load of coffee grinds and sprinkled with bits of gooey cereal. I could manage three skins, though they are pretty chewy. I put in my hand into the bin and grabbed three oranges skins and the associated clumps of coffee grinds and cereal slime, lifted them out and placed them in the aluminium dog bowl. That's another part of the procedure. You are not allowed cherry pick too much. You can't lift up an orange skin and brush off the coffee grinds or clean it up in any way. You have to take what you find, as you find it. Beneath the orange skins lay the remains of my preparations for the casserole of the previous day. Unfortunately my wife had dumped what looks like a considerable amount of gone-off Greek yoghurt in on top at some stage; white, lumpy and runny, with a definite sour gone-off smell. Through the yoghurt mush I could see a pile of carrot skins (uncooked) mixed with a pile of potato skins (cooked). I lifted a handful of each, dripping and sticky with the gone-off yoghurt into the bowl. There were lots of onion skins and the cut off tops and tails of onions where I had chopped them for the casserole. I tried to avoid these as the outer onion skin is very dry and flaky and hard to swallow. But I needed something else to fill the bowl. Peeping out below all the skins I could see a thick stem of broccoli from a previous day. I plunged my hand deep into the bin and came out with my prize, dripping with gone-off yoghurt and with a few onion skins clinging to it. I put it on top. Appropriately enough, it looked like a bone for a dog sitting on top of the general mush in the bowl. Job done. I washed my hands and placed a smaller bowl of water on the floor beside the food bowl.

Then I turned to preparing my wife's salad. You see it's all thought out systematically. If I was to get sick and throw up while eating my bin food, her dinner will not be affected. I'd have already prepared that first and placed it in the fridge or in the oven with the timer set, depending on what she wants to eat that evening. She probably drew up a flow chart to make sure of the optimum outcome. After I sealed her salad in cling wrap and placed it in the fridge, I knelt on the floor in front of the dog bowl and placed a hand on either side of it. What to eat first. Before I could take a mouthful of mush I felt a double zap in my ass. It was my wife calling me on her phone. I rushed stand in front of the tablet in my room, behind the white line, four feet back from the tablet mounted in the wall.

"Well, whose a pretty boy then, in your nice little tiny whities?"

"I am, Madam," I'd forgotten all about my dumb outfit.

"Is that little stain I see on the front of your pants? Have you been having naughty thoughts while your Mummy is working hard in the office to support you?"

"It was only a little leak, Madam."

"Good job I called you up then, stopped things getting out of hand maybe?"