tagChain StoriesThe Worst Chain Story Ever Ch. 09

The Worst Chain Story Ever Ch. 09


Magdalena Shaw was feeling a bit whistful. She had been doing nothing all morning and had planned to do nothing until John came home, but she was starting to get bored with it. Suddenly the doorbell rang. She hoped the maid would answer it. She was awfully busy doing nothing after all. After the fourteenth ring, she realized that the maid was busy with the au-pair again, probably in her wardrobe, and thus she would have to break the monotony after all.

“Yes,” she answered the door, which was odd as the door itself hadn’t asked her anything.

“Um, could you open the door first, ma’am,” said a squeaky voice behind the door.

“All right,” she replied reluctantly opening up the big door, the type only seen on expensive homes and the nicer troll caves, to reveal a tweedy man with a briefcase. “You did see the sign, right?”

“You mean the one that says, ‘Traveling salesman will be drawn, quartered, and shoved down the garderobe that we don’t have.’ Yes, yes,” he replied. “But I am not a traveling salesman, I am Dr. Molesto, traveling psychologist. My services are complementary.”

“You mean complimentary,” she asked realizing that English debates though not nothing, are close enough to be satisfying.

“You will be silent,” he commanded in a high-pitched squeal that was doing its best to sound authoritative and commanding.

“Aren’t you supposed to hypnotize me, before you can command me around,” she replied helpfully.

“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” he replied embarrassedly. “Listen, can’t you just invite me in so I can proceed to violate you and your trust in a direct violation of my profession’s code of ethics.”

“I’m not sure, what if I let you place me under an erotic hypnosis and all of a sudden you try and sell me Amway products?”

“On my honor, I only use my talents to violate the bodies of bored housewives in demeaning and derogatory fashions, never to sell Amway,” he replied in a grating wheeze. “So can I please come in now?”

“All right, but you’ll have to abuse me quick as I have a lot of nothing to finish up before my husband gets home,” Magdalena ushered in the doctor.

The doctor was clad completely in clothes. Not like the clothes in her special walk-in closet or even her normal walk-in closet or come to think of it that of her husband. These clothes were normal clothes, like a suit or something or at least what a suit would look like if the wearer were color-blind or just taste impaired. But as a saving grace, the fabric was nice. As for the rest of Dr. Molesto’s features…oh, they’re probably not important anyway. And besides while I was ranting about the suit, the characters had already started a conversation in the living room

“All right then, tell me about your mother,” Dr. Molesto said leaning back into John the Dong’s custom made recliner. By custom-made I mean it was a recliner with a “custom-made” logo. The Shaws spent most of their money on costumes and special fabrics so their furniture budget was remarkably frugal to compensate.

“I can’t,” Magdalena replied lying back on the couch. “We haven’t got to the incest chapter yet.”

“Fair enough,” Dr. Molesto said. “Now I must put you under hypnosis. I forgot my gold watch, so keep an eye on my finger and pretend it’s a watch, ideally with those cool spirally patterns you see in old movies.”

Magdalena obeyed and followed the finger with her eyes, back and forth, side to side, one finger, now a three. Go for the slider. The crowd was cheering in the stands. Tied score bottom of the ninth. Drama set, she was ready to throw.

“You will now feel yourself going into a deep trance,” Dr. Molesto intoned in what he believed to be a claming voice, but actually sounded like Rob Halford on a bad day. “On three you will listen to whatever I have to say and follow my every command. One. Two. Three. Now quack like a duck.”

“I don’t really feel like it,” Magdalena said, wondering where the softball imagery had gone and wondering if she could recapture that. She looked really good in those little hats and uniforms. Maybe she could use that tonight to try and bring off her husband.

“What do you mean,” Dr. Molesto whined in distress. “You’re supposed to immediately fall into a trance wherein you act exactly like a submissive slut who is suddenly willing to try things that she wouldn’t try before.”

“But I am a submissive slut, and there isn’t anything I wouldn’t try,” Magdalena replied with an air of confusion. Her inner character was conflicting with the clichés again.

“Come on, you’ve got to go along with this,” Dr. Molesto said becoming very flustered. This was agitating him greatly because he didn’t want to be named Very Flustered. “You’re supposed to fall into a trance that allows me praeternatural control of your psyche and then I can abuse you. That’s what’s written in the script.”

“Oh, in that case,” she said and quickly became limp as a rag doll, her eyes rolled back in a heavy trance. Dr. Molesto grinned; this was more like it.

“You are feeling very horny,” he said in the Rob Halford voice.

“No shit, ass pirate,” she said slowly in a zombie-like monotone. Dr. Molesto jerked for a second. He was not used to being insulted by one of his hypnotized subjects. Most of his clients were sheltered housewives whose faithfulness and sexual inexperience fueled the power of his control and lust. This whole thing was different and it frightened him a bit. Once things abandoned the clichés, he was in trouble. He decided to take control of the situation. “You shall refer to me as master from now on.”

“Yes, master ass pirate,” Magdalena replied in deep tranquility on the couch. Deep inside she was pleased to be continuing her nothing work while participating in the bizarre man’s lust.

“Better,” Dr. Molesto replied not sure if it was better, but since he had said it was better and since things are supposed to be better when people call you master, he assumed he must have felt better. And now the confusion was starting to hurt, he needed to simplify things.

“Come over here and suck my dick,” Dr. Molesto intoned standing up from the comfy chair/recliner striking a pose he imagined to be dramatic and powerful. She leapt from the couch and attached herself to his crotch.

“Slower,” he squeaked in dangerous discomfort, “And take it out of the pants first.”

He breathed a sigh of relief as she stopped hoovering the tent of his crotch and pulled back to tear his zipper down. He was used to turning women into sluts that obeyed his command. He was even used to the ones who tried to resist him as he opened up their sexuality. He was not, however, used to a subject who was as “eager” as Magdalena. He felt the clamp of jaw on his dick again and looked down.

“Underwear too, if you’d please,” he mentioned as he looked down at the mat of hair surrounding his underpants and the remains of what may have once been his pants below that. “And a bit more careful in the removal this time.”

She slipped off his shorts and clamped back on his dong. It was not as long as John the Dong’s dong and it suffered from other deficiencies as well, but as a hypnosis slave it was not her place to point this out. She did however scoff derisively before deepthroating the shaft in one big gulp.

“Shit,” Dr. Molesto cried out as Magdalena pumped his cock as fast as a turbine. “What the fuck are you? You suck like the badly written star of some bizarre sex story.”

The writer hearing this took vengeance on the character and lowered his stamina from the original clichéd 2 hours to something more realistic.

“Damn writers,” he cried out as he began to feel his sac tighten. “All right woman, stop sucking so I can give you a cream facial.”

Magdalena obeyed the command and sat back not as much like an excited puppy waiting for a bone, but more of that of a drill sergeant waiting for the privates to fall in line.

“Oh, yeah. Let’s paint that whore face white,” he groaned giving his cock two quick pumps. The first shot landed somewhere on the armoire on the far side of the room. The second hit the television in the living room across the hall. The last hit the au-pair’s face. Much to her shock, as well as that of the maid whose honeypot she’d been munching.

“Oh, c’mon that wasn’t even feasible,” Dr. Molesto moaned in disappointment as he looked at Magdalena’s completely clean face. The writer who was drinking a large bottle of rum took a moment’s pause to flick off the character and then resumed the plot.

“I need to get hard again,” Dr. Molesto commanded, feeling slightly uncomfortable at the feeling that someone, somewhere was flicking him off. “Why don’t you strip and dance for me?”

Magdalena proceeded to follow the orders. She stood up quickly and tore the clothes off her body in one fluid motion. She was a beautiful woman of one gargantuan ZZZZ breast and a sunken –A breast. She rose one foot to begin to dance and then stopped and turned to the quite broken fourth wall.

“C’mon now, this is ridiculous even for this story,” she said to the writer and the writer realizing that she was right put down his jug of rum and tried to focus on the three spinning sheets of paper in front of him.

Magdalena’s breasts fell back into a pleasing and more natural shape wobbling between sizes for a second as the writer’s eyes focused and content, Magdalena began to dance.

It was a stellar riverdance, one that would have made Michael Flatley applaud and cheer. Dr. Molesto confused by the interpreting of his command sighed and got hard the old fashioned way: watching breasts bounce.

Having succeeded in this action he called Magdalena over and felt her pussy. It was dry as a bone. Considering that all he had done for her was suck his dick for 10 seconds, this shouldn’t of surprised him, but there were certain “conventions” one expected in this line of work.

“Cum,” he commanded in order to satisfy the unique problem.

“How they hell do you expect me to obey THAT on command,” Magdalena replied testily, adding as an afterthought, “Master Shithead.”

“I don’t know,” Dr. Molesto scratched his head. “Usually I just say that and they do. It’s part of the whole ethos or something.”

“Damn stupid ethos,” Magdalena replied feeling a bit awkward with this confused man grabbing her pussy. Meanwhile a Beatles record started playing upstairs and the house was flooded with the “Number nine, number nine” bit of the White Album. Then, just as suddenly the musical tastes of the writer stopped imposing themselves on the audience and the tale continued exactly where it left off.

“Listen, it’s in the damn script. Now can you just do it. I ORDER you to cum,” he screamed in the wheezy high-pitched squeal that even heavy metal singers won’t touch and John Lennon wouldn’t have even scoffed at. Magdalena feeling a bit awkward was suddenly granted the ability to do the impossible. Her pussy flooded to the order and she gasped in bemusement.

“Thank you, and now turn and bend down so I can sample your fine pussy,” he said relaxing into a more “normal” voice. “And this time you shall cum every time I do. In fact, how about you come with each stroke instead?”

“Whatever, dickwad master,” Magdalena responded as she bent into a doggie-style. Somehow she knew that even with this command, she wasn’t going to be getting much out of the whole exchange. However, she knew that it probably didn’t matter. The experiences of the victim never seemed to be of much import in these types of stories.

He stroked his cock a little as he gazed at the bent-over sight in front of him. He almost ejaculated in the action and mentally cursed the author for removing his previously superman-style stamina. Taking control, he entered into Magdalena’s pussy burying himself in one swift slam. He began to bam, but before he could “thank you, ma’am” he felt his balls once again tighten.

“Shit,” he cried out as he spent his speed in the second thrust. Magdalena in the throes of her third, yet completely unsatisfying orgasm guffawed at the action. Only for a second though as the shots inside her pussy hit her face in a direct violation of the laws of physics and in proof of the author’s level of total inebriation.

“Huh,” Dr. Molesto commented as he removed himself and looked at her cum-painted face. “Well, you can clean this too.” He proceeded to shove his dick in front of her mouth and with one motion he was both clean and hard. He was however not long and thus Magdalena treated herself to another snort at his expense.

“Damnitt,” Dr. Molesto cried out much to the detriment of the neighbor’s dogs. “I’m the master here and now I shall push my pud up your poopshoot. What do you think about that?”

“I think that’s a horrible abuse of the English language,” Magdalena said as she swung her ass into position.

Dr. Molesto growled or at least made a gutteral sound that could be interpreted as a growl by a deaf man on Bizarro World. Angrily he grabbed Magdalena’s ass and shoved himself in with one stroke. Having not been ordered to cum on this action, she derived little pleasure from it, but having been violated there by many other, larger cocks in the past, experienced no pain either.

Sweating profusely in grim determination not to cum until at least a minute, he thrusted again and again into Magdalena’s delectable derriere. Magdalena meanwhile thought back to the idea about the softball uniform and wondered if she had one in the special walk-in closet or would have to borrow one from the neighbors.

After exactly 55 seconds, he felt himself ready to cum and 4 seconds later he erupted deep into her ass and it in all deference to the author stayed there. The writer, nonplussed but powerless over these cum droplets let it be and let the story continue.

“How’d you like that, bitch,” he said jerking her hair back in an act of pure dominance.

“It sucked, and so do you…master. I didn’t cum once.”

Dr. Molesto let out another (let’s call it a) growl and ordered her to cum four more times and become tired and sexually sated. In all deference to the laws of causation, she followed the suspension of disbelief and complied with the orders. Sweating and tired she collapsed to the floor with Dr. Molesto still buried in her ass.

“Much better,” Dr. Molesto said as he reached over to his briefcase. “And now that you are flat on the floor with my cock up your ass and under my complete control, how would you like to buy some fine Amway products?”


John the Dong came home tired from Tony the Tongue’s high class establishment for oversexed high class ladies. It had been a busy day and he was looking forward to the attentions of his wife. But first, he had to ask her a nagging question.

“Honey, why is there someone drawn, quartered and shoved down our neighbor’s garderobe, which they bought off an ancient Scottish castle for reasons I can’t fathom?”

“Just some Amway salesman, dear,” she said matter-of-factly and stepped out in the open to showcase herself. “Now what do you think of this pitcher’s uniform?”

John’s long dong twitched.

“I think it might do.”

And the writer thus finished collapsed drunk on the floor.

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