Sarah's Steed

Pink Flamingo Publishers
  • 1. Auflage
  • |
  • erschienen am 5. Januar 2018
  • |
  • 89 Seiten
E-Book | ePUB ohne DRM | Systemvoraussetzungen
978-1-945648-54-0 (ISBN)
Sarah's husband has always dreamed of having his wife dominate him, but it was never something that she wanted. That is until one day she surprises him, locks up his penis and enslaves him. His fantasy has become a nightmare! He is taken to a ranch where Bridgett, the cruel female proprietor, turns wannabe slave boys like him into ponyboys. She also believes in a full training regime, including toilet service, personal female satisfaction and a rigorous program that trains a slave as to how to properly satisfy a man with his mouth. Instead of a fantasy that leads to sexual satisfaction, his life becomes a hell beyond his wildest imagining. Used as a pony to race against others for sport, used as a toilet, used as a vessel to satisfy other men and, above all, a tongue to give pleasure to jaded women. When his training period is over he returns home as his wife's slave. Sarah seems perfectly happy with the new status quo. But when she takes a lover, he's forced to serve both of them. Not surprisingly, she gets bored and enslaves the lover, too. Can his life get any worse? Yes, it can. She divorces him and sells him to the pony ranch owner, Bridgett, where he spends his days as a pony and his nights are spent between some woman's legs or with his mouth wrapped around some asshole's penis. No hope for his own sexual relief. Then, when his wife comes to visit, he contrives a plan to get her to take him back. All goes as he planned but in the end, she leaves him at the ranch, explaining that, after all, he is just a slave and any time she wants the great attention he can give her she can stop by and get it. He is broken. His life is over. The end? Well, not really as.
  • Englisch
  • 1,74 MB
978-1-945648-54-0 (9781945648540)

Chapter One

Friday Evening


I woke up from a horrible dream in which I was suffocating and drowning at the same time. As the fuzziness of sleep retreated I realized it wasn't a dream after all. The bitch, who had me chained up in her bedroom, had her pussy planted on my face and was pissing in my mouth.

Only a few hours ago, I had been a guy who had just wanted my wife to pretend to be dominant and control me. To treat me like a slave. To whip me and force me to serve her for a few hours and then have us fall into bed for some mind-blowing sex. It was a heady sexual fantasy, one that I could never get enough of. It was those twisted desires, however, coupled with my incessant badgering and my continual disappointment with her efforts that united to place me in this position. Now, here I was, strapped to a frame at the end of some evil woman's bed serving as her toilet.




Six hours earlier I had been relaxing on the couch, watching TV with a beer in my hand. The work week was over and I had big plans to do what I usually did all weekend, a whole lot of nothing. My plans changed dramatically when my wife came through the door with an expression on her face that focused my awareness and started a blossom of burning in my chest. Her normally soft green eyes were icy and her flat expression was a mixture of contempt and derision. That fierce look was exactly what I had been begging her for. It drove to the core of every fantasy I had ever had and my dick took instant notice.

"I want you naked, in your collar, with that worm locked up and kneeling by our bed in five minutes," she barked. "Leave the keys on my dresser."

I was stunned. Who was this lovely stranger who looked like my wife but sounded like every wet-dream I'd ever had? Reason deserted me. I didn't bother to think about the implications of this dramatic reversal in attitude. I didn't entertain any thoughts what might have caused this about face in her feelings toward the domination games I craved. My reasoning mind went immediately astray in a haze of sexual smoke. The ruling part of my body skipped ahead to the frustrating buildup and great sex that was coming and I rushed to get ready. My clothes were history in a heartbeat and the collar was only a few moments more. It took longer to get my raging erection down enough lock it up.

Locking my dick up required running the hasp of a special high-tech padlock through the pierced hole in the end of it and then through the permanent ring that had been soldered just below my scrotum. It was a simple but particularly efficient method of chastising myself that I had invented in a sexual fog one day.

It was mega effective. Removal of the padlock, without having the key, required a bolt cutter that could cut hardened steel, or by ripping the hasp out of the hole and completely disfiguring the end of my penis. My poor little boy immediately started to ache, straining in anticipation of the teasing, denial and eventual release to come. I loved this feeling and hated it at the same time. The feeling of giving up control, especially control of my sexual relief, and not knowing when I would get it back was a sexual fantasy that never ceased to bring me to the brink but, it was a frightening fantasy. For that reason, I didn't like ever giving up the keys. Turning loose of the keys was scary. Without them I was dependent on her to release me and sometimes that meant hours of denial.

Nevertheless, her tone had sent a message that this wasn't something to screw with, that she was playing my game for real this time. I had wanted her to act this way so badly and for so long that I had no intention of disappointing her. I placed the keys on her dresser, moved to the side of our king-sized bed, knelt and waited. I let my thoughts drift into multiple scenarios, all of which ended with me pounding my wife into the mattress.

It was five minutes before she appeared. The fierce flat frigid look was still on her face. It fanned the hot flush in my chest causing it to radiate downward to my groin.

"Whipping position!" she demanded.

Whipping position is a simple one, sort of like a downward-facing dog yoga position. It was surprising for her to ask for it. She never really wanted to whip me and I usually needed to invent some reason why she should punish me to get her to do it. The first flicker of uncertainty joined the hot lump in my chest. What had changed?

I keep the long thin whip, with which I have a love/hate relationship, on our headboard in plain sight, ever hopeful that its presence will trigger her desire to whip me. I want to be whipped as a fantasy leading to the end goal of hot sex, but the fantasy of being whipped by a 'stern Mistress' can evaporate rapidly if she uses too much power. The pleasure disappears, the sexual high deflates and it just ends up hurting like hell. She picked it up and moved to my left side.

"Well," she said, "you have been complaining that I haven't been paying enough attention to you and your perverse needs, like this is merely a game solely for your benefit. I have to tell you that I'm sick of it, and after we're through with what I have in mind for you now, I doubt that you will be stupid enough to ever complain again."

Even though those words were exactly what I dreamed of they fanned the flicker of uncertainty to a low flame.

"First," she said, "I am going to give you ten strokes with this whip, just to start our evening off right. This is not for your amusement, you will not move, and you will count each stroke and thank me after each one."

The second flicker of doubt joined the first, at war now with my flush of desire. Then she brought that damn whip down in a slashing arc and delivered a cut that was harder than anything that she had ever given me.

"Jesus," I thought, "what's that all about?"

I broke after the second one.

Turning to her I asked, "Sarah, what's going on?"

Those icy orbs looked right through me. "Position!" she barked.

After the next three strokes, I couldn't take it anymore. I turned to her again and said, "That's too hard, honey, those really hurt. You shouldn't whip me so hard, it's not fun for me like that. You need to make them softer."

"Position!" she screamed. "I am not going to tell you again, this is not some fucking game for your benefit and if you stop me again I will tie you down and give you twenty more."

I got back in position. Something was wrong, something was different. I wondered if perhaps she had a dreadful day at work. Maybe she would give me twenty more. I didn't want to chance it so I gritted my teeth and waited out five more strokes. They weren't any lighter than the first ones. By the last one I collapsed sobbing. That whipping was nothing like the whipping fantasies I had discussed with her. It seemed. it seemed almost real. Doubt had taken the lead and was starting to win the race.

"Stand up, go downstairs and kneel by the front door," she demanded.

"The front door?"

It's funny how a few words can change your mood. Now that the harsh whipping was behind me, the mystery of her sending me to the front door pushed those doubts back down and brought the flush back with a vengeance. My feelings were tumbling around in my brain like my head was a clothes dryer. I was frightened but deliciously turned on. My body was on fire, my penis was trying to erect and my mind was entirely locked on one thought, the great orgasm that was coming.

I waited by the door for about fifteen minutes before I heard her coming down the stairs. My wife is a gorgeous woman. She has beautifully clear, almost see through skin, cute brown shoulder length hair, not to mention her well put together body, including perky breasts, world class ass and slender to-die-for legs. She had changed into a very hot navy mini-skirt and pale blue blouse, panty hose, high heeled shoes, and was carrying two short sections of chain in her hand. She looked quietly stunning with her hair hanging to her shoulders and her face made up as if we were going out dancing. I wanted her. I was ready right then to forget about this stupid game and go back upstairs for a long session in bed. To hell with my fantasy, it was just a means to get me worked up and I was plenty worked up just looking at her.

"Honey...," I started to say.

"Shut the fuck up!" she bellowed.

"Couldn't we..."

"Hands behind your back!" she ordered.

She attached the two short pieces of chain from my cuffs to the ring on my collar, pulling my hands up to about the middle of my back. The chains were hooked with a snap hook at the collar where it would be impossible for me to free myself.

"Stand up!" she demanded. Grabbing my long leather coat from the closet she draped it around my shoulders and buttoned it in front, effectively shielding the fact that I was naked underneath.

"We are going out," she declared, "You will move when I tell you to without any discussion or I will gag you. I am going to open the back door of the van and you are going to climb in the back and kneel on the floor behind the seats with your head down on the floor."

"Out?" I wondered.

"Move!" she shouted.

I raced out to the van, fearful that the neighbors might see me, climbed in as fast as I could and knelt behind the seats, putting my nose down into the carpet. She slammed the door behind me. By now, doubt was back in the lead and my mind was circling around the possibilities of what she might have planned, not liking what it found. This...

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