Reforming Jaison Lee

By the time I come home with dinner, I am not the least bit surprised to walk into a dark abode. My Husband works from home and has everything he needs to do his job in his upstairs office. His TV to watch Bloomberg and his many computer screens for day trading. When the Markets close for the day, he goes for a change of scenery by skipping over the main level to retire to his beloved “man cave” down in the basement.

I can hear the slight muffles of his farts whiff up the stairs as I transfer the piping hot food I bought from its container and put it neatly on a plate. I walk down the stairs with it stopping at the wooden bar to make him his drink. It is Thursday. This means it is a Steel Helmet night, a drink that consists of equal parts vodka and coffee liqueur, cream, and Galliano liqueur on top to go with his meal.

The media concave where I find My Husband is dark yet illuminated well by the projector that fills the humungous wall. He is watching his much-loved porn. It is always porn, if not mostly. I think nothing of it anymore as I sit his plate down on the table next to his chair. He gets his most divine inspiration from his cyber porn collection via his many profiles across various sites. I smile at the many wonderful ideas he will have in store for me later. That smile swiftly dissipates when I recognize the dark arm arching over the bent white rear brandishing off its shaven ball sac with a large loop marked and centered over the delicately shaven butthole.

It is my rear up there. My dicktoy for the night making an H and an E with his marker around the circle. He begins to write other nasty and degrading things across my milky white flesh before I am spread eagle with a shock wand attacking my boi-clit, leaving me completely horrified to watch.

More than that, My Husband isn’t just sitting in some of the other leather chairs scattered about the room. He is in the sleek leather recliner, the one that cuffs his thick legs and nurses his hot dog-rolled neck with heavy padding and speakers along his ears so he can hear the slightest pin drop in the background of the vivid display. I know better than anybody My Husband hears me laughing and begging for my boi pussy to be wrecked. My then-master—the cameraman—vowing he and his group of merry thugs will do just that.

I never hid my past from My Husband. But this—this scene plastered on the wall in our house was never meant for his eyes.

Look at the amateurish camera angles, I want to scream.

And while the camera wasn’t hugely expensive, the quality rivals that of a professional lens with its crisp frames.

This happened long before I really knew my role, I telepathically tell him through his thick unwavering skull looking at the horsehair flogger come across my small bare nubs.

***

My daddy and his granddaddy were racists. Those old controlling Confederate flag-waving jerks always yelling about their First Amendment Rights. When my great uncle executed his for his love for big black dick, I followed suit. Ran off with the first black man I ever laid lust on. I lucked up on a man that was both strikingly handsome and quite the charmer. He was also a master that owned a bunch of slaves. He introduced me to the joys of sex in and around his river cabin. I quickly discovered I loved it rough; even when he shared me with some of his more seasoned slaves as their just reward.

My boi clit tingled for the whip of his cane. It itched more relentlessly for the slapping of his hard charcoal black skin against my ivory hide, the skins and the strap-ons of his slaves, that forever brought my boi pussy to quakes with every soulful plunge.

Shortly after my master let me go, my slave-brother gave me a number to an old master of his. The old master wasn’t taking on any new slaves, so he referred me to a mistress that handed me over to a so-called master-in-training by the name of Derk, the beautiful asshole. I showed him my obedience and he wanted nothing more than a sissy to mess over without the finesse or the delusion of something more. He used my insatiable need to get fucked against me with his friends, videotaping many of our escapades before passing me around to stranger men in various places doing the same thing. It was only after a very long haul lying in the back of a pickup, I ended up on the doorstep of this older gentleman that lived alone in a trailer park.

I assumed the sole purpose of this man was to be another notch in my boi snatch before he passed me on down the line. Right away, he proved different than the others. He wasn’t ugly or grotesque, as I wasn’t really turned on by short fat translucent men with coke-bottled glasses. He swiftly changed my mind by delivering on every filthy thing he said he was going to do to me. He not only left all my openings throbbing for more after he was done, but he took the strongest line of care with me than any man had ever done before. As if he couldn’t be as good as he was if I wasn’t good and turned on. I never felt in danger, so to speak, but he was the first man to ever make me feel safe. With those things tied together, it made me want to serve him more, serve him better than any man that had ever used me before. He cleaned me up and claimed his rightful place as my master.

A couple of years later, while taking an elaborate whip to my pierced boi clit, he asked me what was my greatest wish. In a blubbering mess, I told him he was through and through, but failed to stop there, begging to be his boi wife slipped out, his exclusive cumdump, ‘til the end of time.

That was ten years ago when he did me the honor. Back when he was just getting use to retirement from the mechanic yard for the county and up for the challenge of using his big country cock to satisfy a poor sissy that had been thoroughly used before. Back when all he could afford was a spiked dog collar than a simple wedding ring. And long before watching that informercial that afforded us a more than comfortable lifestyle.

“Cunt.” My Husband growls angrily on his leather padded throne after the scene of me happily blowing bubbles of cum with my mouth fades to black.

My boi pussy prickles at the crass title, his term of endearment for me. It let me know he is always thinking about my cabbage patch as I always do his hefty slab of tubesteak with its enormous set of potatoes. All the same, I stand still and stone-faced beside him waiting on his direction. I get ready to grab his utensils and plate to feed him when he raps his thick stubby fingers against the armrest. I know this is my universal cute to stand in front of him and get undress.

After a decade of marriage, he knows my body well, every square inch that makes me fidget, and I his. Yet I undress slowly like he is a stranger holding me hostage, a deviant pervert, that I am unsure what lewd plan is on the horizon.

My Husband like the many men before is black, though he looks completely white. Everybody he meets mistakes him for a white man, even my homophobic daddy, as I laughed in his face and told him the truth before he finally disowned me. It is called passing, my coworker Jonquinette explained, with his very fair skin and ginger brown hair whitening by the strands and these dull eyes that froth of sea foam.

He thoroughly inspects me without touching, motioning me to turn around. With my rear clearly in his face, he rubs his old calluses over my jiggly buns, giving then a playful swat practically in synch with the next clip on the screen. The jolt makes me look at the assorted network of whips he has in the corner. It is his intimidation tactic. And his flogs and his paddles and his canes and his belts have a way of extracting a different shriek out of my throat, My Husband knows better than best his gruff hands are the very things that make me slick and wet for him. His fingers make nice with my boi pussy and sweet spot inside, and his chunky thumb brusquely inserts itself in my snug ungreased abyss.

I am hit with a flashback. A teaser from yesteryears of the countless pairings of me that used to saw into each of my openings during a three- or moresome. It pales in comparison to My Husband pulling his sticky digits and slapping my warm boi pussy with these maddening clusters of thuds that turn me on with no climatic resolve.

He pulls his hand away after I let a moan mistakenly escape from my lips.

“Cunt.” My Husband growls after five long minutes of stewing in his silence. “Dinner is getting cold.”

I turn around. I go for his plate, and then he tells me, “…but it’s your duty to get me comfortable first.”

I look down at him. Not at the glasses covering his green eyes, because I know better than this, he is hypersensitive to this, but at the bulging midsection that makes up the better part of his stout frame, sitting there looking back at me commandingly as I know what he expects out of this boi cunt.

Comfortable means comfortable.

I descend to my knees at his large oiled-stained boots. I grab one of his thick legs out of its padded cuff and carefully undo his boot. I take it off following his sweaty tube sock to reveal a big fat foot that doesn’t quite seem to go with the rest of his body. My puckered lips are subservient just the same kissing the top of his foot before I suck his toes with the eagerness of popping sweet kernels of kettle corn in my mouth, submissively doing the same with his other leg, foot, and toes.

He quickly moves to his feet. I undo his belt and denim jeans, pulling them down first, and then take in the slow pleasure of unwrapping his revved-up cock. I pull his shirt over his Buddha belly and over his head before I make my way down on my knees, neatly folding his clothes at his feet.

“Hands,” he commands loudly.

He doesn’t want me handling his food after I touched his feet, of course. I head back over to the bar and wash my hands thoroughly for thirty seconds before I am allowed to come back to his plate right at his side.

“Light duty, Cunt,” he growls.

Usually, it is my pleasure to hand-feed him every morsel, putting the fork under his thin graying moustache and his concoction of the same color against his lips, but with “light duty” he isn’t interested in me doing that right now. My pleasure is whatever he commands of me next.

“Knees, Cunt.”

I oblige hesitantly, getting down on my knees. He takes one hand to my face and gently caresses it. Then, without warning, he slaps me with the other hand, hard, again and again. This is his way of getting me in line. Letting me know this isn’t a game for him, to reduce me to the nothing I was when he first laid eyes on me. His cock bobs against my whimpers and my boi pussy betrays me with a violent cliff of twitches that reminds me of the first time he fucked me.

“Back on your feet, Cunt,” he adds, pulling me by the hair with one final slap.

The first part of my foot routine is to let him know I worship the ground he walks on. This, of what he is asking me to do now, is almost biblical, as I fetch him a tub of warm water to wash his feet while he eats and watches porn.

My Husband knows I enjoy doing this favor for him, too. He just doesn’t have the slightest of clue how much. I dare not look up at him while he does this. I do however sneak a couple of peaks at him while I dry and begin to rub his feet tenderly. He has a funny, but admirable shape to his stout frame. His chest is alabaster and flat and near hairless with spiky dime-sized nipples that is almost identical to the same whiteness as the rest of him. His belly is large and round. His cock long and awkwardly thick like an unpeeled plantain not evenly stuffed, with the two together making up the eyeless head of an albino Mr. Snuffaluffagus.

I giggle in my head at this sometimes. My savior, my dream beau, my knight and shining armor. My other senses quickly kick in with this voracious untapped appetite that makes me want to crawl out of my burning skin because he is all those things, the master of my domain.

“Cunt,” he growls after he sits his cleaned plate back on the table.

I continue to rub the soles of his feet unfazed. Not as an act of hesitation, but as I try not to be so obvious in how he still makes me feel after all these years, this urgent need to orgasm without touch.

He raps his fingers against his knee this time. He smirks coyly when his eye catches mine, patting his upper thigh.

I crawl into his lap like he wants me to. I brace myself for his harsh hand to come across my rear. I get his hand, but not in the fashion I expect. His fingers are itching at my boi pussy again, against the tender folds of the outside and the again roaming my insides. My Husband knows well how to get me going: pure, unadulterated manic finger-fucking, like a musician fine-tuning his instrument. I want to scream a release at this first touch of orgasm. I can’t. If I do, he’ll stop, proving his undying point that I’m still the dirty little whore that filmed that movie. Shamefully, I am. Back then it was about my love of dick, any dick. About making one of those big ugly cunt-stretchers whimper like a little bitch in heat and crawl back under its hood after extracting its most cherished prize—its seed. From the time I met My Husband, however, I’ve refused to be anybody else’s slutty cock-hungry whore but his.

I try to hold back, muffle my screams. It is futile. My boi pussy is wet against his fingers again, and my second wave of orgasm coerces me to shut my eyes and forget I am not to screech.

My Husband lets out a pleasing grunt. Bringing his soaked fat fingers to my mouth, forcing me to suck the juices he created out of me. I feel this is my place.

It is not my place, he subtly explains.

He shows me my place with his calluses coming hard across my bare rear. Once, twice, three times more. Enough! He pauses briefly to my excitement and wild breathing. Then, he comes down hard against me over and over again until I am numb and stinging and surely bright red back there.

“My cock, Cunt,” he barks after my last glorious yelp.

His cock, my spine tingles. Just on cue, I feel his cock pulse with an unsteady beat against my flat tummy.

My runny juices are moistened against his thigh as I roll off him with strangling sobs. It isn’t from the punishment he put on my rear. This is the pent-up climax he hadn’t shattered yet.

I know my place. This isn’t about me. If I play my cards right, it surely can be.

“Come back here.” He growls, thumping his knee. “Cunt.”

I look at him, sitting there like a small giant in his chair. He feels like he is a thousand miles away, somehow. He gives me his first real tattling smile of the night as I crawl back to him on hands and knees.

“Open your filthy mouth, Cunt.” He growls again.

I shiver.

I wrap my hand around his cock with many inches to spare, to enjoy, to take fully between my parted mouth. I look up to find his lips are parted, letting out a soft betraying groan. He doesn’t often do this on a whim for me. He wants me to work him as his boi wife. I know the video has played its part in this. I take it from there, concentrating on rubbing my tongue against his now-leaky tip, aiming for another sound to betray his body.

“Balls,” he commands, snatching me by my hair.

I hold his cock above my head just like he likes and slurp his balls, cherishing each of them like flavorful grapes in my mouth.

“Oh, fuck, Cunt,” he grumbles.

Soon enough, he guides his cock back into its rightful place. I try to gain the lead on this one, taking him back into my mouth; sucking him hard and deep as I can take him down the gullet. I can’t fully explain it. It is something empowering about taking this most prized possession and making him weak in my mouth.

He showed his dominance once again, pulling me off him. He gets out of his chair and walks away. My Husband appears to be abandoning me. That is until I see the leash and feel the dog collar he has obviously slipped around my neck to tug me along.

On hands and knees, I follow My Husband down the hall to the other rooms. If we were to make love, it would be done upstairs in the comfort of our marital bed. It is not. This is a fuck he is going for, much like it was in the video. He has his rooms down there. Dungeons, if you will. Mostly hard and cold and dark encased in brick and cinderblocks where his devices and chains hang from the walls and ceilings. It looks like a place where hostages are kept. He leads me into the room where the padded platform is and ropes dangle just above the pad.

He ties my wrists upward to the ceiling, and my ankles the same, so my legs are spread wide and up in the air. I prepare my mouth for a gag, a soft gag bar preferably, but he makes it well know he wants to enjoy my screams as he oils up my rear.

He holds me steady against the tension of the ropes, coming up behind me. He plays with my boi pussy while my boi clit squirts hoping it is an excellent distraction from his cock burrowing its way deep into my wrinkled chute and fucks me hard and silly.

***

A few hours later, I sit down at my computer. I am naked with painfully sore thighs and a raw anal cavity still squishy of a third barrel of My Husband’s creamy-battered penis-crafted brew. I see another email from that bastard Derk, my former tormentor. He recently got wind of our small fortune. He thinks he deserves a cut of the action for bringing My Husband and I together. He has followed through on his ominous threat of posting old videos of me online, and vows to post more if we don’t pay him his fee.

The only email he has doesn’t belong to My Husband. It is mine under My Husband’s name, in honor of his respective ownership of me. The bastard Derk has made me work really hard to download these clips off some of those “lame” sites just to upload them again onto My Husband’s favorite porn sites hoping he’ll catch wind of my boi cunt being humiliated for the entire world to see.

My Husband loves seeing me at my sluttiest. Even after ten years of marriage, he believes strongly he can reform me from the whore I was to the cock-hungry boi cunt he always thought I could be.

My Husband hadn’t seen nothing yet compared to the hardcore arsenal I know Derk still has in his collection.

My boi cunt itches at the possibilities of being stretched out by My Husband.

Now, if only I can only get that dumbass bastard to give me everything he has...My Husband still has a long way to go if he expects me to live up to my full potential.