The Worst Chain Story Ever Ch. 01byoggbashan©
The Worst Chain Story Ever Ch.01: Matching His Fetish
Copyright Oggbashan May 2003 The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
Note to Readers: Please read the title. This is meant to be bad, repetitive and boring in places. If it were not a Chain Story it would be categorised as Humor and Satire. You have been warned. Continue at your own risk.
Magdalena Shaw opened the door of her walk-in wardrobe and walked in. This is her special wardrobe with her sexual clothing, not the other walk-in wardrobe with her normal clothing, nor the fitted wardrobe on the wall for her husband's clothing. It is not a garderobe because it doesn't have a toilet and Magdalena lives in a modern architect designed house not a medieval castle and even if she did live in a medieval castle she would not be seen dead using a garderobe because they are cold, draughty and dangerous to the user who could fall in and end in a pile of shit at the end of a long drop so she prefers to have a fitted bathroom ensuite to her bedroom but the other end of the room from the wardrobes. The two walk-in wardrobes had been designed and built for her as a special feature of the house. The special wardrobe is twice the size of the normal wardrobe because her special clothing was used twice as often so she had twice as many special clothes. In between the two walk-in wardrobes is a concealed room that contains the video equipment for the many cameras in the bedroom. Accessed from the special wardrobe behind the bridal wear, it had a one way mirror looking into the bedroom for voyeurs and broadband for live camera action which was a useful source of income for the Shaws.
Her husband, John (the Dong) Shaw was sure to be tired out by his shift at Tony the Tongue's high class establishment for oversexed high class ladies. John the Dong was always hard and never came into a client which meant that he was in great demand. After a shift he wanted to come but was so riven with hang-ups that he needed Magdalena's special clothing and talents to get him past the self generated fucker's block that he used so well at work. Now that Dick the Prick was on duty John the Dong could relax but only once he had shot his load into Mrs Shaw for sure.
If only John the Dong could tell Magdalena the fetish that would work for him tonight life would be so much easier for both of them but neither he nor she ever knew what would break through the log-jam of his fucker's block.
So Magdalena prepared for everything. He would be here soon begging at her feet for relief. Once, just once, as Mr and Mrs Shaw walked the seashore, her salty smelly feet on his face had worked the trick and jolted his prick to come a ton in his pants. So each time she leapt in feet first but no matter how smelly there was no cum for her belly.
Mrs Shaw thought that silk would be a good start so she dressed herself carefully from the silken raiment in the silk section of her special walk-in wardrobe. She slid on her orange silk panties, clasped on her orange silk bra with pointed cups and strange Arabic inscription. The inscription was strange, all right. She had asked the proprietor of the dressmaking sweatshop for a suitable inscription. The proprietor had called one of his exploited illegal immigrant employees and explained what was wanted. The proprietor could read English and Urdu. The employee could read and write Arabic and understood very little English but she seemed to understand what was wanted. Magdalena was pleased with the result which was extremely finely worked. The only Arabic reader who had seen that bra had not dared to tell Magdalena that the inscription actually read "These bumps are man made. Beware hole that you could lose a camel in. The smell should tell you when you are near it."
Magdalena eased on her voluminous lurid green harem trousers and tied the drawstring at her waist. There was as much silken material in those trousers to make a bridal gown and the bridesmaids' dresses as well. She covered her hair with a pink silk scarf and carefully arranged her yashmak so that only her eyes were showing. Then she pulled dozens of silk scarves from their drawer and tucked them into the waistband of her trousers.
She waited until she heard John the Dong's key in the front door before flinging her all enveloping black silk burqah over her head. As John entered the room all he could see of his wife was a column of shapeless black silk.
"Kiss my feet!" Magdalena ordered.
John dropped to his knees and kissed the bare foot that stuck out from under the silken burqah.
"On your back!"
John rolled on to his back. Magdalena's dirty foot pressed over his face grinding him against the carpet. She put the ball of her foot over his mouth and squeezed his nostrils shut between her big toe and the next. John's face gradually turned purple, the colour of a Victoria Plum, from lack of breath but there was no other reaction. Magdalena sighed soundlessly to herself. It had been worth a try. She tweaked his nose with her toes before releasing her grip. John gasped for air.
"Do you want to see more of me?" she asked.
John nodded. He was still short of breath and the cheesy smell of her feet deterred him from breathing too deeply.
"Then you must strip first. Everything."
John followed into the bedroom. Magdalena stripped off her voluminous burqah and spread it over the bed.
"Turn round! Hands behind your back!" she ordered.
She pulled a silk scarf from her waistband and tied his hands with it. With another scarf she stuffed John's mouth before holding in place with a third scarf tightly wound over his lower face. She pushed him to the bed. A fourth scarf lashed his ankles, a fifth his knees, a sixth his elbows and the seventh she tied around his head Grace Kelly style. The eighth scarf she wrapped around a one inch stainless steel ball-bearing and pushed deep into his puckered hole causing John the Dong to moan but whether in pleasure or pain it was difficult to tell because his mouth was fuller than his arse.
From her special wardrobe she took a straight heavy white silk night-dress. She pulled it up his body sheathing him in slippery fabric. The ninth and tenth scarves lashed the night-dress to his body. John lay passive as she straddled him, her harem trousers swishing over the white silk concealing him.
She slid up his body until the bulky folds of the harem pants covered his face smothering him in scented silks. His head thrashed to clear a path for him to breathe but there was just too much silk. Magdalena's hand reached down between his legs. There was no discernible reaction so she intended to try just a little longer with silk before changing.
Lifting herself off John's purpling face, the colour of a Victoria Plum, she reached behind her waist untying the drawstring of the harem pants. She reached down to untie the ankles and slid her legs out.
She pulled John on to his side and bent his head towards his knees. Carefully she fed his bound legs into one leg of the harem pants and tied the ankle cuff tight around his silk scarf held ankles. The other ankle cuff she closed completely before feeding his head and shoulders deep into the harem pants' leg. Once the voluminous folds of silk had engulfed his legs and his body she rolled him face down while she pulled tight at the waistband drawstring behind his back. The waistband puckered like a closing butthole until John was completely hidden within the swathing layers of silk.
Magdalena checked between his legs again. No response. She took the black silk burqah from the bed and stuffed John's silk swathed body inside before using the yards of material to lash it around him. She felt again with difficulty through the multiple layers of sussurating silks. Still no response. Sighing soundlessly to herself she released John from his enveloping silks like peeling the skins from an onion. As his head emerged the purple of his face, the colour of a Victoria Plum, was fading as if the plum was reversing the ripening process. She left his ankles and wrists tied but removed every layer of silk and all the other silk scarves except the eighth.
Back in her special walk-in wardrobe Magdalena stripped off her orange silk panties and the orange silk bra embroidered with the strange Arabic inscription that did not mean what Magdalena thought it meant, not that it mattered because Magdalena had forgotten what she had intended it to mean and anyway it didn't mean what she had meant it to say and was unintelligible to everyone of her lovers except the one Arabic speaking one who hadn't and wouldn't tell Magdalena that the inscription was rude about her tits and pussy. She threw the massy layers of brightly hued, except for the black burqah's glossy black, silks into a slithering heap on the floor. The au-pair and maid would sort them out if they weren't sorting each other out Magdalena wondered not for the first time that there was something unusual about the relationship between the au-pair and maid or was it between the maid and au-pair whichever there was certainly something between them and it wasn't the butler, or was it? The maid and au-pair walked into Magdalena's special walk-in wardrobe too often together for togetherness to be healthy or was it unhealthy but as long as it didn't frighten the horses which is unlikely because the horses were in the stables and not in Magdalena's special walk-in wardrobe which had been built for people not horses because no one would build a special built in wardrobe for horses would they or might they if they aimed to go in for whatever it was that involved horses perhaps copulating on horseback at a gallop which would be impossible in a special walk-in wardrobe because walk-in wardrobes were built for walking in not galloping in.
For once Magdalena hesitated. She intended to be a nurse next. Should she be a nursery nurse, or a enema-giving nurse, or a strict nurse, or a naughty nurse, or a rubber nurse, or a black nylon stockinged nurse, or a plastic nurse, or a caring nurse, or an uncaring nurse, or a cruel nurse, or a forgetful nurse; she wouldn't forget the time she had been a forgetful nurse who forgot the tourniquet she had put on John the Dong's dong and nearly turned John into John the dongless but enough of this reminiscing she had decisions to make so she decided not to be any of the aforesaid nurses and dressed herself as Florence Nightgale, The Lady of the Lamp, in which incarnation Magdalena would wear a crinolined dress with crotchless pantaloons to visit the injured soldiery and raise their spirits with her dedicated and saintly demeanour but would a saintly demeanour raise John the Dong's dong to stand up and sing Rule Britannia or not so she changed her mind again half way through changing into Florence Nightgale and decided to be a normal nurse who wrapped her patients in plastic film to avoid infection not that plastic film was much of a barrier to germs but it certainly was a barrier to consummation and pretty neat at keeping off spilt consomme too.
Back in the special double sized walk-in wardrobe she dressed in a white front-fastening cotton bra, a pair of large pale blue cotton panties, a pale blue slip and a nurse's white uniform dress belted with a black silver-buckled belt. Sitting on the padded stool she rolled black hold-up stockings up her legs before easing her feet into highly polished sensible black shoes.
Pausing only to pin a white cap to her hair, to collect about half-a-dozen rolls of plastic kitchen filmwrap and her thoughts for possible ways to arouse John the Dong's dong, she walked purposefully back into the bedroom where John the Dong was still struggling to extricate himself from her silk scarf bonds and from the expression on his gagged face he was not appreciating the silk wrapped one inch stainless steel ball bearing that was still ensconced in his rear passage or perhaps he had an attack of wind whichever Magdalena decided that her first act as a nurse should be to relieve him of the encumbrance to his anal activities so she rolled him over and pulled at the scarf ends protruding from his puckered hole which unpuckered sufficiently for the silk wrapped one inch stainless steel ball bearing to pass from his passage to the outside before re-puckering with a resentful sigh of passing air as if John the Dong's puckered hole could express itself of its emotions about the assault of the silk wrapped one inch stainless steel ball bearing on its puckering skills.
Magdalena rolled John the Dong on to his back and tied one end of the first roll of plastic film to the scarf securing his ankles. Working slowly and steadily she rolled John the Dong over and over wrapping and overwrapping him in layers of clear plastic film gradually moving up his legs past his knees and thighs leaving his dong uncovered as she attached another roll to the first roll and rolled steadily up his body wrapping his scarf bound arms to his torso before rolling up his chest to his neck and to his chin where she paused with an interrogative look to which John the Dong replied with a violent shake of his scarf encumbered head so she tied off the plastic wrap under his chin before leaving the bed to walk into the special walk-in wardrobe and open the refrigerator, which all special walk-in wardrobes should be equipped with, opening it and retrieving a spray can of pressurised whipped-cream which she shook violently as she walked out of the special walk-in wardrobe into the bedroom.
For the second time Magdalena hesitated because she had not thought out whether he should be whipped-creamed for her to lick off or whether she should be whipped-creamed for him to lick off. To whom should the whipped-cream be applied or not was the question but she was not going to hesitate as long as Hamlet nor indulge in fanciful discussions with ghosts nor feign madness nor make fatuous remarks about philosophy because she was going to whipped-cream one of them and soon she thought as she continued to shake the whipped-cream can violently which was not the recommendation in small print on the whipped-cream can but who cares as long as someone gets whipped-creamed soon?
While hesitating (for only the second time) she noticed that John the Dong was perspiring as a result of her efficient wrapping with plastic film so she sprayed a large blob of nearly freezing whipped-cream over John the Dong's dong which caused him to violently arch his body and his face turned purple, the colour of a Victoria Plum, which surprised Magdalena somewhat as she had expected that he would have appreciated the cooling effect of the whipped-cream so she tentatively squeezed a small dollop of whipped-cream on the back of her hand and realised that the whipped-cream was indeed cold if not freezing which was not a helpful sign for the renovation of John the Dong's dong so she decided to leave the dong to unfreeze while she would be the one who was whipped-creamed.
So ... Magdalena unfastened the front of her nurse's white dress, slid the pale blue slip off her shoulders uncovering her white front fastening cotton bra which she unfastened from the front and she was just about to whipped-cream herself when she realised that John the Dong was not able in his gagged state to un-whipped-cream her so she regretfully laid the can of whipped-cream aside while she ungagged him which he took advantage of by attempting to expostulate but she prevented him by stuffing his mouth with a freshly uncovered but as yet un-whipped-creamed breast. She whipped-creamed the unoccupied breast and withdrew the un-whipped-creamed breast from John the Dong's mouth squirting a goodly dollop of whipped-cream into his gaping mouth as she made the exchange of un-whipped-creamed breast to whipped-creamed breast. John's mouth sucked greedily at her whipped-creamed breast so she hurriedly whipped-creamed the so far un-whipped-creamed breast and exchanged breasts again with a goodly dollop of whipped-cream squirted into his mouth during the change-over. While John sucked at her breast Magdalena had a thought that perhaps it might be worthwhile asking John the Dong if there was anything that she could do that would return his dong to a fully functioning state so that he and she could gain the much needed relief because so far her efforts had been unsuccessful.
"What's wrong with your dong, John?" she asked, withdrawing her now whipped-creamless breast from his mouth.
"It's sore from fucking too many high class ladies at Tony the Tongue's high class establishment for oversexed high class ladies who are too high class to use lubricants and too high class to wait until my dong has aroused them to a lubricated state so that when they jump on my dong it goes in strong and gets used too long. That's what was wrong with my dong."
"And now you have frozen it solid with freezing whipped-cream which might have been a good idea to fix what is wrong with the dong but for the extreme coldness of the freezing whipped-cream."
"You've done wrong to my dong. Now that's what is wrong."
Magdalena hesitated for the third time. There was a silence punctuated by heavy breathing as John the Dong and Magdalena, the wife of John the Dong, pondered how to fix what was now wrong with John the Dong's dong.
"Shall I kiss it better?"
"It might fix what is now wrong as long as you don't come on too strong to my over-used dong," admitted John.
Magdalena knelt beside the bed and extended her tongue to John the Dong's dong. Slowly and carefully she licked the dong clean of formerly freezing whipped-cream. As her lips touched the dong she could feel what was wrong with the dong which had been used so long by high class ladies coming on strong. The dong needed tender loving care. At present it felt as if it had been mauled by a bear.
Magdalena hesitated for the fourth time. In her special walk-in wardrobe under the bridal dresses but not blocking the passage to the secret room she had a stock of suitable pharmaceuticals for special occasions when John the Dong's dong or any other available dong was not capable of coming on strong. She needed to see what she had in her stock of suitable pharmaceuticals for special occasions that would be suitable for what was wrong with John's dong because this was a special occasion.
"I need to get something from my special walk-in wardrobe. While I do can you tell me about English Pirates?"
(Note to reader: I had to get this and the next story in somehow so I have used a cunning plan to get John the Dong to tell them while his wife is in her special walk-in wardrobe. They have nothing to do with the story but I'm the author so I can do what I like. So there! Sticks out tongue at reader. If you don't like it you should have been deterred by the title of this story.)
"When John the Dong was young, tales about Pirates on the Spanish Main (which was no more Spanish than my arse (or ass if you are American)) were like the morality tales of the Wild (American) West.
There were GOOD pirates (Hurrah! Wave Jolly Roger) who fought the Spanish enemy (Boo!) and BAD pirates (Boo!) who robbed, raped (but this word was NEVER explained) and pillaged until they met the GOOD pirates (Hurrah! Wave Jolly Roger) or the BRITISH NAVY (Three Cheers! and wave Union Jack) and were sunk (with all hands) to the watery grave they deserved.
BAD pirates (Boo!) could sometimes become good by attacking an overwhelming force of the Spanish enemy (Boo!) to give time for the BRITISH NAVY (Three Cheers! and wave Union Jack) to catch and destroy the Spanish enemy (Boo! then cheer because they are destroyed) but TOO LATE to save the not so BAD pirates who had sunk (with all hands) in their gallant attack (After all they were Englishmen. One faint cheer) on the Spanish (Boo!).