The Suburban Stable

We're about to leave—me to the living room, where I plan on watching some TV while Kate, Jamie and Melissa fight for my attention (after they've finished eating and cleaned up the kitchen, of course), and Paris for the upstairs bath, where she'll shower, then dress in one of my approved outfits—when a sound comes from under the table.

Paris squats and peers into the darkness.

"Did someone say something?"

"Yes, mistress," Melissa replies. "I'm sorry to bother you and master, but I thought I should remind you that both Kate and Jamie are gagged."

"Yeah?" I say, also squatting.

Melissa kneels in a position that would have allowed her uninterrupted access to her breakfast of choice while Paris was seated. I look from her to Paris, who gives me a sly wink, and make a mental note to punish her later for not sharing her brilliant idea with me.

"Well, master," Melissa says, addressing me, "I just thought that—"

"That's your problem, right there."

Melissa is a good girl. An obedient slave who lives for chances to prove herself as such to me and her mistress. However, she has one weakness. An almost fatal flaw. She hates not being able to express herself clearly, and in addition to her looks, is very sensitive about her intelligence. Calling her ability to think into question is almost as hurtful to her as calling her fat (which she's not, by the way)—but it also makes her pussy wetter than almost anything else.

"Remember what I told you about slave girls, Melissa?"

She nods, clearly not trusting me not to interrupt her if she tries to speak.

"Well? Tell him, slut," Paris says, grabbing a handful of Melissa's gorgeous dark hair and jerking her head to one side—hard and sudden enough she cries out in pain.

"Slaves should be seen, not heard," Melissa repeats through gritted teeth. "But sir, ma'am, I have to point out the simple fact you've overlooked."

Paris moves to discipline her again, but I hold up my hand and she stops.

"Go on," I say.

"Sir, with their gags in they can't eat."

I close my eyes and wince, imagining a face palm, but not quite willing to do it in front of my pets. Instead I smile, nod patronizingly, and say:

"See, that's what I mean. You open your mouth, you judge your mistress and I, without knowing our true intentions."

I get up, and Paris, releasing Melissa—who totters back on her heels—does the same.

"Next time, think before you speak, Melissa. I know you're just looking out for the others, but you need to worry about yourself and let them do the same. I offer Kate and Jamie a beautiful meal, one lovingly prepared by their mistress. Whether or not they're in a position to eat it is not my problem. You, however, are. I suggest you eat something, before I change my mind."

Paris laughs, I smile, and Melissa, beneath the table, scrounges up the choicest morsels from our leftovers and eats them quietly.

Paris departs, and soon after I hear the shower come on upstairs.

Faintly, under the table, I also hear Melissa's voice, as she apologizes to her fellow slaves for eating in front of them. Jamie, who is so worn out by her time spent suspended in strict bondage, makes no reply, but Kate utters what can only be a low growling sound.

***

Later, Paris gone, I'm on the couch watching re-runs of paranormal investigation shows on TV. I've always had a thing for spooky stuff, and this is the right blend of interesting and amusing to be perfect background noise.

Beside me, curled into me on the couch, lies Jamie. I have an arm around her shoulder and I hold her small body tight as she shakes through the aftershock of her previous period of intense submission. I whisper sweet nothings to her—"good girl" and "you're so good" and "I love you"—while together we watch Kate punish Melissa by flogging her breasts and bottom with a leather riding crop.

Kate is naked now, as is Melissa, whom I gagged at the first opportunity. She protested, of course, knowing she'd be unable to verbally defend herself from Kate's accusations, but that was the whole point, and I paid her no mind.

Kate's body—pale and freckled—is flushed pink with exertion, and I notice she's sweating as she lifts her arm, takes careful aim, and delivers another painful blow at the precise apex of the cleft between Melissa's thighs.

"Greedy bitch," Kate hisses, inhaling sharply. "I'll show you what happens to girls who tease."

Whack!

Another blow.

Kate moans, obviously enjoying herself, her hard nipples bouncing at the ends of her perky breasts.

"What do you think, sweetie?" I ask Jamie, and kiss the top of her head.

"Me?"

"Yes, you, silly."

Kate, hearing us talk, stops with her arm raised, and looks over her shoulder in our direction.

"I think, I don't know, I mean..."

Whack!

Melissa screams in pain (pleasure), and not for the first time I'm glad I gagged her. Like many masochists, a big part of Melissa's enjoyment comes from the catharsis enabled by her pain. In order to properly 'get it all out,' as she likes to say, she has to be able to scream freely.

"I think," Jamie says, and swallows with an audible click, "that I'm a bit jealous."

"Jealous?"

Whack!

Kate's blows are fewer and farther between. I can tell she's getting tired, and I suspect under normal circumstances she might've given up long before now, but because she has an audience and wants to make a point, she's forcing herself to continue. Of course, I could put a stop to it at any time, for her sake or poor Melissa's, but I want to see how long she can keep up it—with the thought that punishing a lover of punishment requires forcing her to overdose on same.

"Would you care to elaborate, sweet one?"

"I guess I think I wish I could trade places with Melissa. She looks so pretty, tied up like that, sweaty and blushing."

"I didn't realize you liked pain," I say. My hand slides around her arm to her left breast, where my fingers find her nipple. I give it a short, sharp squeeze, and she cries out prettily.

"I don't," she says, pushing my hand away and covering her nipple with one little hand. "I mean, not really. But it's just, she looks so pretty, and I always want to look pretty for you."

'Pretty' to Jamie meant suffering.

She is a sensitive girl, with a surprising delicacy to her demeanor. If I didn't know her, I would've thought her disposition the same as her manner, but for all her social awkwardness, the girl could take a beating (literally and figuratively).

"Well, I'm not against the idea, as long as Kate doesn't mind. What do you think, Kate? Care to take out some of your frustration on Jamie?"

Kate, breathing heavily, shrugs.

"Will you tie me up?" Jamie asks, directing both her gaze and her question at me.

I laugh.

"No, my dear, I don't think so. You'd like it too much, and then it wouldn't be much of a punishment."

Jamie pouts, but stands up and approaches Kate awkwardly.

"You might as well untie Melissa, Kate—I think she's done, anyways."

Together, Kate and Jamie untie the raven-haired, apple-bottomed vixen, who slumps weakly into their arms. The three women stand there a moment, embracing one another, a parade of naked female flesh I'd very much like to be in the centre of, and then Melissa detaches herself and makes her way over to where I'm sitting on the couch.

When she gets close enough for me to touch, I tell her to turn around and bend over.

"Good girl," I say, reaching out and grabbing one of her pink butt cheeks. Squeezing the smooth, yet firm, flesh, I feel the warmth of the cane burn through to my palm. "Are you wet?"

"Yes, master."

"Shall I check to see how wet you are?"

"Yes, master."

Spreading her open with one palm, I insert my index finger into her slit, and immediately feel the intense wet heat of her arousal.

"You're a good girl, Melissa. You make me very happy."

"Thank you, master."

"Now, come here. I have something I want you to take care of."

Aftercare is different for everyone. Some need physical affection—hugs, kisses, caresses—and most require tender words—assurances of their worth—and some, though rarer, require a more direct, less developed, kind of comfort.

Melissa is one such person.

So while Kate finishes preparing Jamie—which mostly means positioning her in a way that ensures maximum exposure—I make a space for Melissa between my legs and guide her into position. Her mouth, when it latches onto my dick, is both hot and wet, the combination of which escalates my arousal a thousandfold in an instant. She knows how to suck a dick, and, more importantly, she enjoys doing so, moving her head slowly up and down as she works her tongue over and around my shaft.

I close my eyes, sit back, and listen to Jamie's pained screams as she's whipped over and over and over again.

***

"Now isn't this cute."

I open my eyes and see Paris standing there, shopping bags in hand, her once beautiful brown hair dyed an equally beautiful shade of auburn.

"You look good. I like what you've done with your hair."

Paris smiles, but I sense the displeasure she'd tried to conceal with sarcasm a moment ago. She drops her bags and strikes a pose, putting a hand on and cocking one hip while looking up and to the right, her other arm held behind her head at the end of an arm cocked at an acute angle with her shoulder.

Around me, Melissa, Jamie and Kate begin to stir.

The three women are naked, their bodies entwined to form a kind of human web around me.

I am also naked.

After the punishments had concluded, those who had not yet eaten, Kate and Jamie, went and had a snack, then joined Melissa and I on the couch. Together, we'd cuddled up and entertained ourselves in various ways—Jamie and Melissa read, while Kate and I seemed content to play with the others' bodies. I guess at some point we must've dozed off, but for how long I couldn't say, since I hadn't stirred until Paris's return a moment ago.

"You lazy sluts need to get up," Paris says. "Now!"

She uses her no-nonsense tone, which is enough to snap everyone, including me, to attention.

"You heard your mistress," I say, giving every bare bottom presented to me an encouraging swat. "Hurry up. Get your lazy asses off the couch."

Melissa, always eager to please, arrives first, and kneels before her mistress like a little dog. Jamie follows suit, but Kate, remains where she's standing, her freckled face a mask of defiance.

"You two go on into the kitchen," Paris says, staring Kate down. "There're groceries on the counter that need to be put away, and I've left a recipe I want you to start prepping for dinner."

"Yes, mistress," the two women chime in unison, before crawling off in the direction of the kitchen. When they're gone, she says to Kate, "What's your excuse?"

"I'm not a domestic—I don't do kitchen work."

"Oh?" Paris says, raising an eyebrow. "Since when?"

"Since now." Kate folds her arms defiantly in front of her breasts. "There's nothing you, or he, can do to make me."

Paris directs her gaze, as well as her next question, at me.

"And you find this kind of disrespect acceptable?"

My cock, which had lain dormant against my leg, springs to life. I rise, and it rises with me, bobbing like a snake—hungrily scenting the air for prey. And, like a snake, it senses and homes in on its target of choice.

"No, I certainly do not. However, you are the one she's disrespected most, so you have my permission to do with her as you please."

Kate glares at me, her eyes blazing emeralds, and I'm reminded of a bull—a very pretty and petite bull, but a bull just the same—headstrong, willing to destroy herself if it means taking the mocking matador and her (okay, I'm bending the rules a bit with this analogy, so sue me) maddening cape with her. For a second, I think she's going to do just that, throw herself upon me, or Paris, and rip us to shreds with her long natural nails and sharp little teeth.

But then, as suddenly as her back went up, she seems to deflate.

Without much fuss, she drops to her knees and crawls quickly to where Paris has indicated with a pointing finger.

"That's what I thought," she says, smirking at me. "Sometimes these young ones need a reminder of who's in charge."

I shrug, but my cock belies any attempt I might make at flippancy.

"You're welcome to watch, if you want," Paris says, grabbing a fistful of Kate's ginger hair. "Or participate, of course. I, for one, am always mindful of who the final authority is in this household."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Kate hisses as Paris drags her across the living room, forcing her to scramble on hands and knees to keep up, lest she slow enough that Paris rips the hair right from her head.

I follow close behind, enjoying the sight of Kate's puffy sex, with its well defined slit and ginger bush, as the globes of her buttocks shift as she moves. I feel like I, too, am being led, and it's not an altogether unpleasant sensation to realize I am, quite literally, following my cock.

Upstairs, in our bedroom, Paris pauses momentarily, releasing her grip on Kate's hair so that she, Paris, can strip out of her clothes. The two of them then continue naked into the bathroom, where I follow soon after.

"Why do you have to be like that in front of the others?" Paris hisses. "You know I'm grooming you—training you for better things. So why act like a spoiled child when all I want is for you to do your share. I didn't have to pick you, you know, and there's nothing saying that I can't go back on my choice, if you continue to misbehave."

Kate's eyes are full of tears, though whether it's from the pain of having her hair nearly ripped from her scalp or her mistress's rebuke, I can't say for sure.

"Well, aren't you going to say anything for yourself?"

Kate shakes her head, defiant to the end.

As much as I admire her character—it's also bringing out the beast in me. I want so badly to take her apart, piece by piece, to reduce her to a crying, shaking mess, but this is Paris's show, and if I were to supplant her now, the effect would be worse than what Kate did to her earlier. If I participate at all, it will be at Paris's insistence, and something tells me she's about to call upon my services—if only to add that additional layer of (perceived) legitimacy to her punishment. This is (nominally) my house, after all, and I am (in theory) the one in charge.

"In the tub, slut," Paris says, and Kate hesitates for just a second before she obeys. "Lay down, tilt your head back. Mouth open, eyes closed."

Seeing Kate folded up like that, she looks tiny, fragile somehow, in a way she's never looked to me before. Her nipples are hard, their points rosy pink, standing in stark contrast to the rest of her—which, even next to the porcelain of the tub, seems creamy and smooth. Paris, meanwhile, approaches the tub and climbs onto its edge, bracing one foot against the far wall and one foot on the toilet. Reaching down, she spreads herself open and, tilting her hips, takes aim.

Before she lets loose, she looks to me for approval, and I nod my head, not trusting myself to speak.

"This is but the first of many punishments, you disobedient bitch."

Paris's aim is off, but she quickly corrects herself, directing the stream of her hot urine straight into the younger woman's mouth.

Kate gasps, spluttering and choking as her mouth is suddenly filled with hot piss, but to her credit she makes no move to stop Paris from urinating in her mouth. Instead she simply lies there, breathing through her nose, as her mouth fills, the excess urine—which is a pale golden color—spilling down the sides of her mouth. She makes cute mewling sounds when she feels the stream shift direction and patter against first her closed eyelids and then to her pride and joy, where it soaks into the red locks, plastering them to her forehead. Paris keeps going for what feels like an impossibly long time—her bladder must've been fit to burst!—but then her stream slows to a dribble and stops altogether.

Wiping herself with a folded piece of toilet paper, which she then tosses over her shoulder into the tub, Paris smiles at me.

"What did you think?"

Without replying, I approach her. I see the briefest hesitation in her eyes as she tries to determine what I might be able to do, but she makes no move to avoid or hinder me in any way. In fact, she sighs contentedly when I grab her by the neck and, putting one hand on her hip, spin her around and bend her over the edge of the tub. Positioning myself for penetration, I happen to make eye contact with Kate as I look over Paris's shoulder to where she lies in a pool of urine at the bottom of the tub.

She smiles at me, and I nod back.

Paris's pussy is tight and slick, and sliding into feels like heaven. She moans, arching her back as I penetrate her to the hilt. Reluctantly, I withdraw. Then, slowly, reinsert myself.

It takes a superhuman act of will to keep from losing control, from pounding away inside her until I bust the nut that's been threatening all day. I know she could make me cum in an instant—Paris knows me almost as well as she knows how to work her own body—but unlike this morning, that would not be in her best interest, for this, right here and now, is what she's been waiting for all week, the moment when she could let her guard down and relax. This isn't about Kate, or Jamie or Melissa, or anyone else—it's all about her.

I increase the tempo of my thrusts, and the fleshy sounds of impact become audible as our bodies connect with greater force than before.

Wrapping one hand around, I cup Paris's left breast and feel her hard, rubbery nipple in the palm of my hand. I squeeze, gathering a handful of flesh, causing her to cry out first in pleasure, then pain, as my fingers dig in. I continue to squeeze as I fuck her, and she, in turn, begins to thrust back at me—using my momentum to springboard herself from the edge of the tub, in order to meet my bucking hips.

I try to hold on, I really do, but before I know it I'm looking past Paris's shoulder at Kate again. She's watching me with those wide, green, ancient eyes, staring at me the way a cat might look at a canary just out of reach inside a gilded cage. I feel myself stiffen, then hear myself grunting something typically inane—"Shit" or "I'm cumming" or "Fuck" or a combination of all three—and Paris's high pitched yet somehow low, guttural moans, fill the air. Our fucking reaches fever pitch, and as she grips me tight, I push into her again, overcoming all resistance to catapult us towards orgasm.

I grunt, holding myself against her as her contractions milk me the rest of the way, and close my eyes as I ejaculate inside of her.

When we're through, Paris stands upright and runs a shaking hand through her hair. I, too, am a little weak kneed, and have to brace myself against the bathroom wall.

"That was incredible," I say, smiling at Paris, who smiles back.

"Not bad at all," she replies. Then, to Kate, she says, "You, slut. Wipe that grin off your face and get over here."

She holds a hand underneath herself and, with a few visible pushing motions of her internal muscles, forces the majority of my thick white spunk out of herself and into her palm. Paris offers her hand to Kate, who, looking at me, eagerly laps up the milky treat. I feel my body wanting to respond, and I almost get there, but it's too soon, and besides, it seems Paris has more in mind for Kate than I'd first realized.

Wiping her soiled hand with the redhead's hair—then perhaps remembering she'd drenched it in piss only moments before—quickly runs her hand under the tap.

"You. Have you learned your lesson, or do you require further disciplining?"

"I've learned my lesson, mistress."

For some reason I don't believe her. I doubt Paris does, either, but she lets the barely-held expression of innocent contrition convince her of Kate's sincerity.