tagIncest/TabooHumbled Ch. 01

Humbled Ch. 01


I guess I should have known where it was all going to lead when I picked up my niece from the train station. Lucinda is a stunning 19-year-old, big breasts, shapely legs, great arse, short-cropped dark brown hair and flashing brown eyes. And the fact that she looks like a teenaged version of her aunt, my dear wife Belinda, should have given me more clues.

But honestly, when I collected her in my almost new Aston-Martin Vantage after her 30-minute train ride from London's Paddington, I was more interested in seeing how she had grown up since I'd first met her.

That had been three years before when she was 16, of course. She was my wife's sister's kid, and Belinda's sis – a shapely 40-year-old named Melinda, the family obviously had a thing about names ending in "I-N-D-A" - was pretty attractive too. Anyway, it appeared that I had flirted outrageously with Lucinda and Melinda at the wedding breakfast and for this "infraction", as she put it, Belinda made me pay.

On our wedding night, she had produced her trusty leather strap and given me a stern 36-stroke paddling before allowing me to have my way with her. As you may have gathered, Belinda and I have what some prudes might term "an unorthodox" marriage.

I am a submissive by nature, and I believe that in the privacy of our own home I am referred to as a "sex slave". Belinda, I suppose, is "my mistress". I don't go for tags like that and nor does my beautiful bitch, Belinda. But I just love the way she bosses me. There's no public humiliation, in fact at the many social events we attend, I am to all intents and purposes an extremely successful businessman with the charming, attractive, dutiful wife.

Behind closed doors, though, it's another kettle of the proverbial fish. Belinda refers to me as "Slut", or "Shithead", "Slave" and sometimes, when she's really worked up, "Cunt". But I still call her Belinda – if I used the term "Mistress" she'd laugh, more likely than not.

Belinda is a stunning woman, of course, as befits the wife of a multi- millionaire. She's 36, which makes her four years younger than me, and she has large breasts – real handfuls – a very shapely bum, lovely thighs and toned calves. She works out. So do I. I'm two inches above six feet, I have dark hair, which grows unfashionably long, and nearly reaches my shoulders. I'm rich enough not to give a flying fuck when friends jokingly tell me "Get a hair cut".

We live in a lovely, large mansion on the outskirts of a small town in Berkshire and she has two maids who keep the place spick and span. Two gardeners do the same with the spacious grounds. If they know what goes on when they're not around they give no indication. Good staff, though, which are extremely hard to find these days.

And no, don't get carried away with the old fantasies about maids and virile young gardeners. Both the women are in their 60s, and I reckon the gardeners are even fucking older! No "Lady Chatterley and her lover" stuff for Belinda. Or "A Man With A Maid" for me!

Back to Belinda. She was attracted to me when she found, after our first sexual experience, which was sensational, that I had a submissive streak a mile wide. Soon our affair was superb sex, interspersed – or intermingled – with superb teasing and domination. And it hasn't dimmed since our marriage in 2004. She still loves the idea that she can dominate me at home in our basement dungeon, or our bedroom, and that in public she seems the confident, but quiet, wife.

So on the morning that Lucinda was due to arrive for a three-week stay, Belinda told me: "Pick her up from Maidenhead station, show off your new toy, but no flirting with her, you randy old sod. Then we'll drive to that place in Bray for lunch. And you will behave there, too, or it's punishment for you tonight!"

That, of course, was the signal for me to flirt like mad with Lucinda, as both I and my wife both knew only too well. Quite how Belinda was going to get me down to the basement with Lucinda in the house, I didn't know, so I presumed the fun and games would take place in our bedroom – screaming, I reckoned, would be a no-no.

I parked the Aston-Martin in a no parking zone at Maidenhead station and waited outside the ticket offices for Lucinda to appear off the train from Paddington.

I recognised her immediately. She was carrying a large Nike tote bag, wearing a tight t-shirt that was seemingly glued to her big boobs and little white denim cut off shorts that appeared to have been sprayed on. Her thighs and calves were beautifully bronzed and she wore clunky, high-heeled "Fuck me" shoes. Her hair was close cropped and she grinned a very big grin and reached up to kiss me on the cheek.

"Hello uncle, aunty says you've got a brand new Aston, so drive me to your place by a round about route," she ordered.

I took her bag and inquired how she'd been getting on at the Sorbonne, which was one of the reasons I'd not seen her for years. She spent so much time in Paris, and Belinda and I always spent months during Christmas and winter in the Bahamas.

"I'm getting on fine, uncle," she replied, showing a glorious expanse of thigh as she climbed into the Vantage's passenger seat. "My French is coming along superbly – how's your French, uncle?"

But it was the way she said it. She was clearly not talking about the French language. I laughed: "Cheeky, and less of that double entrendre. I'm under strict instructions from Belinda not to flirt with you!"

Lucinda chuckled a deep, throaty, sexy chuckle. "Or what, uncle? She'll give you a spanking?"

"Naturally," I said, quickly, and then to hide my slight tinge of embarrassment I switched on the engine and let it roar. Lucinda was impressed.

"Let's rock and roll, uncle!" she whooped, and I pulled out of the station forecourt just as an ugly old crone of a parking warden approached.

As soon as we were out of the town, I drove around some of the leafy lanes and byways to give Lucinda the thrill of being squired in a sporty motor – well, "sporty" for an old 40-year-old like me – before we drew up in front of the mansion, the wide tyres of the Aston crunching on the bright white gravel chip.

Inside, after Lucinda and Belinda had made "Mwa, mwa" noises as they pretend kissed, my wife's niece went upstairs to get dressed for lunch. Belinda was already in a stunning green creation, which moulded to her fantastic figure.

About 20 minutes later, Lucinda returned and I had to forcibly prevent myself from licking my lips. She was wearing a sort of diaphanous summer frock which revealed that she had on a pair of tiny white knickers. The material at her breasts was thicker, so you couldn't see any outlines of a bra, but the cleavage displayed a breathtaking expanse of bronzed breasts.

"Let's go," snapped Belinda, noting my gaze at the girl's bosom. "We'll take the Mercedes."

The Merc is a four-seater, and after driving the Aston it's like being behind the wheel of a fucking bus, but there was no way we'd all cram into the Vantage, and that was the way we went to The Fat Duck, in Bray. It was once a pub, but now it's reckoned by experts to be the finest restaurant in the world. None of which interested me – all I was interested in was Lucinda's mouth watering décolletage.

Belinda carefully noted the way I looked down her niece's cleavage. Whenever I tried to engage the teenager in conversation my gaze simply went from her face to her boobs. I couldn't help it.

After lunch, we drove around for a while, with Belinda pointing out some of the landmarks. Since Lucinda was seated opposite me in the front seat, I every now and again looked at two other landmarks!

Back home, Lucinda and Belinda changed into bikinis and splashed in the pool. I pulled on some Speedos and joined them. My wife likes to see me in Speedos because they meld around my equipment.

Now I'm not the biggest stud in the world, but my uncut cock is damn near eight inches when it's angry. And my body is lean and toned – and tanned. I use a suntan bed, and I work out. Belinda likes it that way.

Belinda wears scandalously brief string bikinis, and Lucinda either bought hers from the same firm, or Belinda had leant her from her vast collection of horn-inducing creations. Either way, they were revealing lots of breast and lots of buttocks. And I like it that way.

In the evening we had a light salad for dinner, accompanied by some Krug champagne, and then Lucinda stretched – an action which strained her t-shirt tight across her big boobs – yawned and announced "I'm fucked, I'm off to bed". And with that she kissed me and her aunt on the cheek, and trotted off.

Belinda looked at me archly, the patted the seat alongside her on the leather couch. I joined her.

She smiled, frostily. "And now, my dear cunt slut," she announced, "you're for it. You've not taken your eyes off her titties for one minute, have you?"

I nodded, smiling slightly. My cock was already stirring in my satin thong. I knew what was to come – me, I hoped. But not before a punishment session.

Belinda smiled back at my smile. "OK, then, you panting pervert. Upstairs and into your slave thong. I'll be up to inspect you in a short while." And then she smirked. "Or a long while. Either way, I want you ready."

I leaned forward and kissed her on her cheek. Belinda placed a cool hand on my chin and pulled me roughly to her mouth. As we kissed, she bit down sharply on my lower lip before snapping: "Fuck off cunt, and get ready!"

I fucked off. Upstairs my hands trembled as I stripped and pulled out my "slave thong" from my bedside table drawer. No matter how many times Belinda announced she was in a domination mood, I still thrilled with dry mouth and heaving chest at the thought of what was to come.

The "slave thong" is a revealing little outfit. Basically it's a strip of black leather in thong-style, but there's no material to cover the wearer's cock and balls. Instead, sewn into the lower part of the leather is a metal ring, through which I push my testicles and cock.

The ring acts, of course, like an engorgement strap and my cock stands up stiffly. Then, when I was ready, I went down on my knees, placed by hands behind my neck with my fingers intertwined, and I waited. And waited.

About 20 minutes later – I was only guessing because I'd put my Rolex on the bedside table when I'd undressed – the door opened and in walked Belinda. She glanced briefly at my submissive pose and my thick, hopeful erection, then walked into the large en suite bathroom.

I heard her run a shower, then the sound of a hair dryer. She was dragging out my awful period of dry-throated anticipation. As she often did.

Finally, she emerged from the en suite. And no matter how many times she engaged in this sex play, I couldn't help but gaze at her beauty and feel my cock hardening in approval as I drank in her magnificent appearance.

Belinda was nude save for five items. On her feet were gleaming black Italian court shoes, with shiny stiletto heels. Around her middle was a gleaming black suspender belt, the satin shimmering as she moved towards me. On her legs were silk stockings, attached to the straps dangling from the belt. Her breasts were bare, her hair was dragged back in a severe ponytail.

And her pussy was also bare. Her trimmed light brown bush was cut back so I could see her sex lips, puffed and shiny from the secretions which announced her arousal.

She stepped in front of me and placed her feet wide apart. From where I knelt I could inhale the heady, sexual aroma of her juices. I wanted her.

From above me she hissed: "Kiss me, admit your indiscretions!"

I placed my mouth eagerly on her minge, tasting the glorious musky moisture there. And then I pulled back and apologised. "I'm sorry, my darling, I've been ogling your niece."

Belinda sniffed. "Ogling? You've been panting for her ever since she arrived. You want her tits, don't you?"

I nodded. "Yes, darling," I confessed, as if it hadn't been obvious all day.

"You want to suck them, lick them, stroke them, fondle them, don't you, you disgusting old pervert?" Only it wasn't a remark that needed a question mark.

"Yes, darling," I confessed once more.

"But more than that, eh, pervert face?" snapped my wife.

"Yes, darling," I again admitted.

"You want to tit fuck her, don't you?" said Belinda, her remark cracking out like a whip stroke.

"Yes, darling," I said, my eyes glued to her pussy, my cock throbbing.

"Cunt!" snapped Belinda. "OK, fetch the paddle, bitch!"

I rose, still maintaining my hands-behind-the-neck pose, and walked stiff-pricked, cock swaying, to my wife's side of the massive bed, and then opened her table drawer and pulled the paddle from where it lay. As usual, I caressed the heavy black leather implement before turning to return to where my wife stood, her hand out awaiting my transfer of the tool of correction to her grip.

"Over the bed, cunt," she snapped, when she had the paddle in her trusty right hand.

I moved to the foot of the bed, cock oozing pre-cum as I bent over and placed my upper body on the cool satin sheets. I spread my feet until they were about a yard apart. And then I raised my buttocks slightly and waited the paddle's caress.

"How many, slut?" asked Belinda, in a whisper.

"Er, 30?" I ventured.

Belinda snorted. "And the rest, mister!"

I gulped, then doubled it. "Sixty, darling?" I asked.

Belinda's voice was like a purr. "And an extra 12 for starting off at such a ludicrously low number," she said. I tensed, as I realised I was to get 72 whacks. Even for Belinda that was a high number.

Then my punishment proceeded. The paddle was gently laid on my buttocks – the calm before the storm. Then Belinda swung it down and "Thwaaaaack" it burned onto my buns.

I moved my head so I was looking to the right, where I could see my wife's brilliant body in the mirror as she raised her arm again. "Thwaaaack!" And on, and on, and on .....

After some 30 strokes, Belinda switched the paddle from her right hand to her left and resumed her slow, steady, bum-burning. The blows were not her heaviest, but they were hot strokes, and I knew my butt would be red for days.

After about 60 blows had rained down on me, Belinda gave me the last 12 with her right hand. It was all I could do to stifle sobs of pain as the final 12 of the six dozen burned into my seared flesh.

At last she was done and I saw the paddle drop onto the sheets by my face. Then Belinda was on the bed, her bare back propped against a trio of satin-covered pillows.

Still wearing her high heels, she parted her thighs, presenting me once more with a glorious vision of her suspender belt, her stockings, her inner thighs, her sex. "Now eat me, cunt licker!" came her command. I did.

Her wonderful taste combined with her wetness drove me to heights of passion and soon she was writhing in ecstasy on my mouth. Before long she was panting "I'm coming, coming, mouth fuck me, cunt, I'm coming!" And she wasn't quiet, either.

I hoped that Lucinda couldn't hear – her bedroom was several doors away – and then I realized I didn't give a fuck if she could, and buried my face and tongue into my wife's wonderful passion pit. And then she came, and after a few minutes she calmed.

I lay still, my mouth pressed against her damp crotch, and then I felt her hand stroke my head. That was my signal. Rising, I pressed the tip of my hard-on against her cunt lips and drove into her. My bum was burning, but the heat of my desire was even hotter and soon I was pumping spunk deep into her.

The next morning, I stirred and found I was alone in the bed. Then I remembered, Belinda and two of her girl friends had a shop-till-we-drop mission in the West End. I glanced at my Rolex Oyster, saw it was almost 9am, showered, dressed and went down to the kitchen.

Sitting there, sipping a cup of coffee and reading The Times sat the lovely Lucinda. She was in her white denim cut-offs and a blouse that displayed quite a spread of breast flesh.

She looked up at me, and smiled an enigmatic smile.

"So, uncle," she grinned, leaning forward and giving me a great glimpse of her boobs, "you'd like to tit fuck me, would you?

To be continued.

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