A Couple Brought Together Act 03

ACT THREE

CONTENT WARNING & DISCLAIMER

This is the third of five Acts of a novella that is not as romantic as its title might suggest. This particular Act contains descriptions of bodily functions and unpleasant foods. If such fetishes are not 'your thing', please scroll straight down to the part labelled 'Section Two' near the bottom of this page.

ACT III: CONFLICT

DAY FIVE

Jane lay in the darkness trying to sleep. She listened to her Master's gentle snoring. She was lying on a narrow mattress at the foot of his double bed. She had massaged him – toe to head, back to front - for a full hour and a half before he told her to switch off the lamps so he could sleep. She could see the digital bedside clock. It was now 02:53.

Her hunger pangs were agony. She had never fasted before. She'd half-heartedly tried numerous diets in the past ten years; every New Year and most summers, trying to shift a few pounds to get into shape. It wasn't that she lacked the willpower so much as life got in the way. There was always some reason to bend the new diet's rules; a glass of wine here, a helping of pasta there, or start again tomorrow.

But this was brutal. Nothing got in the way here. And there was nothing to take her mind off her hunger either. No cigarette or cup of coffee, no finger-induced climax. Not even Chris to talk to.

She pushed her hand down between her thighs and felt the smooth ridges of steel. She touched the padlock and shivered. Why hadn't she been born with an easier kink? She pressed the tip of her little finger in between the rings and felt nothing but tenderness and frustration. Her stomach rumbled and she had to bite her lip not to make a noise as another hunger cramp gutted her.

To try and distract herself, she thought back on how she had reached this point in her life. She'd always thought of herself as a pretty normal girl, really. She started masturbating young, although she didn't climax. She just knew it felt pleasurable between her thighs when she rode along the rim of the wet bathtub at bedtime. When her breasts started budding, she liked the feel of her nipples. She associated sex with 'nice feelings' rather than with 'nice boys'.

She was fourteen when the fantasies started. She would touch her clit and torment herself by not allowing herself to reach a climax. The boys she desired at school were all the evil ones, the nasty kids who treated their girlfriends badly. She imagined the humiliation of fucking them and then being dumped, publicly ridiculed. She learned one-by-one about sordid sex acts and fetishes that secretly aroused her.

When she did finally have a boyfriend, he was a nice guy, of course. He was called Cliff. They were both virgins. Their sex was just as you'd expect. Nice. She tried to piece together the girl she'd been at 18 with the woman now lying at the foot of a dominant strangers's bed. How on earth had that happened?

She saw the last twelve years as a journey, a meandering road, via three ex-boyfriends and one white wedding to this, her story so far. Yes, her Master was old. No, he didn't love her. Yes, he had shared her. No, he didn't permit her sexual release. Yes, he had imprisoned her husband. No, she certainly didn't want anybody she knew to discover where she was.

Yes, it was a long journey and, no, she had no idea how it would end.

*** *** ***

"Coffee!"

I like interrupting Jane with random requests, right when she's in the middle of a chore. She was down on her hands and knees carefully scrubbing the kitchen tiles with a toothbrush, and I barked out my expresso order, even though I was nearer the Nespresso machine than she was.

We'd made good progress in the first few days. It was Tuesday morning, April 3rd. She was dressed in her housemaid's outfit. It was shiny and black; stiletto heels, fishnet stockings, short skirt, tight blouse and a little white apron. Under her skirt, she wore expensive French underwear, what's called an 'ouvert'.

Meaning literally 'open', an ouvert has all the visually erotic advantages of sexy black lace, whilst offering easy access to a woman's orifices without any garments needing to be taken off. It is basically a pair of frilly knickers with a generous slit in the gusset. French mistresses used to wear them for hurried fucking assignations with lovers if their cuckold husbands might be nearby.

When Jane bent over to work, her skirt rode up and her ouvert was visible, flashing me a nice glimpse of the steel within. It would take weeks, a couple of months, before she was fully healed but the operation had gone perfectly. In the meantime, her mouth had been working overtime. I'm a blowjob man at heart. But, today, I planned to say goodbye to her anal virginity.

She brought me a cup of coffee on a tray and placed it within easy reach.

Yesterday she'd done her first full workday; fourteen long hours of domestic chores, from 8 in the morning until 10 at night, interspersed only with short supervised breaks; washing, scrubbing, sweeping, polishing, ironing, cooking, everything. I knew that she'd soon find the drudgery of household tasks harder than the endorphin rush of sex.

I didn't ever say 'thank you' for anything. She placed the coffee down and hurried back to work. I ignored her. I was sat at the kitchen desk, in front of my laptop, corresponding with new friends, developing a whole new social circle.

Jane didn't know it yet, but I was arranging a hectic schedule for her.

On the credenza beside my desk, was a smaller monitor screen that beamed live coverage of Chris standing to attention in his cell. He was staring straight into the lens, his eyes level, back straight, arms down by his sides. He was naked except for the chastity tube encasing his penis. Motion sensor technology sounded a little ping on the screen if he moved much more than just breathing.

Like his wife, Chris was finding the reality of boredom hard to cope with. He had spent three days like this, thinking his own thoughts, silent, motionless, until his exhausted limbs screamed. There was a lining of steel pins inside his new Dictator chastity tube that punished the merest hint of stiffening in his penis, forcing him to ponder only the most mundane topics, hour after hour.

I smiled at Jane working on her knees, furiously scrubbing the tiles. I could see she was uncomfortable. An hour earlier she'd requested a toilet break. I said no. I believe subs should learn to go only at their owner's convenience, restricted to a few opportunities a day.

Half an hour later, I could tell she was right on the edge. She had her head in the under-counter cupboards, removing every pan, cleaning it and restacking them. Her hips twitched occasionally with the effort of controlling her bladder.

"Okay." I sighed. "Go fetch your tray."

She got up, scuttled outside to the shed, and came back with her kitty litter tray. It had already been used, with clumps formed by dried piss, and two dessicated droppings remaining from yesterday.

She spread old newspaper out and then placed the plastic tray in the centre of it.

I came and sat down in a chair opposite her, holding the video camera.

"Remove the ouvert. We don't want to make a mess."

She lowered her pretty underwear and pulled it over her heels, laying the black silk neatly over the corner of a chair.

"Assume the position."

She laced her fingers behind her head and slowly bent her knees, lowering her hips slowly until she was hunkering over the filthy tray. I could see her nakedness framed by her short skirt and fishnet stockings.

"What do you need to do?"

"Both, Sir."

"Both, what?"

"Pee-pee, Sir. And poo-poo."

I nodded condescendingly.

"Okay. You can piss first. But only part of it for now. Stop when you're half way through."

It's hard enough relaxing only your bladder when your bowels are bursting. But stopping her urine mid-flow as well would present an interesting new test. Part of my enjoyment was inventing fresh challenges for her every day.

My interest isn't scatological. I'd reassured Jane of that right from the start. It's about power. There is nothing more fundamental than controlling what goes in one end of somebody's system, and when it comes out the other.

"Hurry up."

Jane frowned in concentration, bending her knees so she was crouching even closer to the tray. I opened the camera's viewing screen and pressed record. A red light glowed.

"Now!"

A fountain of urine gushed through the shutter of steel rings locking her cunt. It sprayed all over the newspaper and some made it into the tray. She adjusted her angle so she was directing the stream downwards as best she could.

I had started her on a brutal 350-calorie a day fasting plan; for fluids, she drank a pint glass of green antioxidant juice in the morning to cleanse and sustain her. The rest of the day she sipped apple-skin tea (a tisane made with old apple cores and boiled water) and plenty of plain tap water.

For lunch each day, I allowed her a bowl containing a heaped mound of lettuce leaves. I teased her that she fucked like a rabbit, so she should eat like one! I used the blandest kind of droopy salad leaf, unseasoned, served with neither dressing nor mayo, salt nor pepper. Just straight, boring leaves. They contain only 40 calories for a filling 200g serving.

Then, at the end of her working day, I treated her to a large bowl of 'waste-broth'. This is a healthy consommé made using kitchen leftovers such as fish skin and chicken carcass and vegetable scraps that are boiled for hours then strained, leaving a watery, low-cal, low-cost supper.

I am a qualified dietician. I planned to increase Jane's intake quickly to a thousand calories, and eventually 1,500 or more. I'd keep her at the perfect weight. But for the first few weeks I was putting her on a savage de-tox regime for her own good.

And to continue her bowel cleansing, for breakfast that morning I'd treated her to an extra 250-calories, in a mash designed to flush any remaining impurities from her system. It contained un-sugared bran, prunes, lentils, castor oil and a branded supplement called Colon Cleanse, all blitzed together in a blender.

Poor thing was so famished she wolfed it all down despite its appearance and taste.

"Look at me."

She was still struggling with the lack of privacy. The indignity of being watched and filmed doing her toilette was still very new. Making her call it pee-pee and poo-poo like a child added to her intense humiliation. She blinked and stared into the lens as she urinated messily.

"What's your name?"

She whimpered in a gasp of humiliation and relief. The pressure on her bladder was starting to subside.

"Jane McKenzie." She replied to the camera, eyes blinking with shame.

Her thighs clenched and she grimaced with concentration. She held her breath. Somehow she managed to turn off her urine tap mid-flow. She hunkered low, slowly getting her breathing under control, awaiting my next command. I waited until there were no more drips.

Then I got up and walked leisurely round my kitchen, opening the fridge to pour myself a glass of grapefruit juice. I took my time, looking out the window at the lawn. It was a dry but grey day, with patches of blue sky breaking through the ominous cloud.

"Hold steady." I called back over to her.

A few days ago she'd have begged, whimpering 'please'. But she was learning that silent obedience is her only acceptable course of action.

I took a few grapes out of the fruit bowl and ate them one by one, studying her.

I farted loudly, like the booming croak of a bullfrog clearing its throat.

I think carelessly breaking wind in the presence of somebody you barely know can make a useful point. It showed Jane what I thought of her. It underlined the inequality in our relationship. I warned her that I expected perfect ladylike etiquette from her at all times, even when she was voiding her bowels, in fact especially when she was voiding her bowels.

I was free to belch, fart, cuss and be vulgar whenever I felt like it.

But if she so much as hiccupped, mouthed a swear word or leaked gas, she would be held to account.

"Okay. Hold the piss. You can take a little shit now. Nice and controlled. Just one log."

Her face scrunched into a pained expression. Nevertheless, she simply nodded her head obediently at me, indicating she'd try her best. A sheen of sweat glowed on her forehead. Her brunette hair was tied back away from her face and neck with an elastic band. Her hands were still laced behind her head. She was wearing her wedding and engagement rings but I'd confiscated her watch and other trinkets.

A groan escaped her lips, in tandem with an unruly expulsion of gas from below, and the results of that morning's mash. Three soft cowpats tumbled into the litter forming a pyramid.

"Enough." I barked irritably.

"I'm sorry, Sir." She gasped, eyes-wide.

"That had better not be all you filthy piglet."

I sniffed, enjoying her embarrassment. I could see her thighs were starting to tremble with the strain of holding the awkward squat position for so long. We'd barely started on her gymnastic training yet.

I took mercy on her. "Okay. You can finish now. Both ends. Hurry."

Her piss started gushing like I'd turned on a fountain. A couple more loose droppings tumbled onto the steaming pile. I watched her straining to expel absolutely everything which fitted in nicely with my plan.

I let her wipe herself with a piece of kitchen tissue and then she returned the used litter tray to the shed once again. It was important to make her use the same litter for several days in a row. It would be spoiling her to allow Jane even the standard of sanitation we give our cats.

*** *** ***

Then I took Chris down his lunch.

It was a Styrofoam plate of Prison Loaf. I'd made it myself, packed with protein, fat, carbs and calories.

In fact, packed with everything but flavour!

I discovered Prison Loaf on the internet. I purchased most of the ingredients from a supermarket but a couple had to be bought online, since my local store unsurprisingly doesn't stock 'Processed Dairy Blend' or 'Mechanically Separated Poultry'.

Mechanically Separated Poultry is a paste-like slime produced by grinding carcasses after the manual removal of meat from the bones. The slurry is then forced through a sieve under pressure. The resulting puree includes a few scraps of meat on the bone but is mostly marrow, skin, nerves, blood vessels and ground bones.

It can't really be as revolting as it sounds because some cheap hot dogs and bologna sausages are made with it.

I blitzed the poultry paste and processed dairy with boiled carrots, cabbage, potatoes and kidney beans in the blender. The resulting pulp looked like the vomit you throw up after a meal; brown with orange and green bits. The only seasoning I added was a cupful of my salty piss.

Then, as the recipe advises, I shaped it into a nice loaf shape and baked it.

It is hard to describe what the finished product looks and tastes like. Externally, it was a suitably ginger-toned slab that kind of toned with Chris's hair. Inside, imagine something that looks like nut roast but tastes like damp cardboard.

It is edible, but ... inedible!

But if the Loaf is good enough to punish difficult prisoners in some US penitentiaries, it's sure as hell good enough for Chris!

After three days of virtual starvation, he had eaten yesterday's loaf, gagging a few times. Overnight, his stomach had rebelled. His adult diaper was a mess in the morning.

"Hi, Chris." I smiled, waving the Styrofoam container.

He was stood to attention, staring ahead through the steel bars.

"Look what's on the menu. Same as yesterday."

He dry-swallowed, shifting his eyes to the Styrofoam. He looked haggard. His armpits and entire cell stank of body odour. His face was stubbly and his breath reeked. He hadn't washed, shaved, wiped his ass or brushed his teeth since he'd arrived. It was all part of his 'breaking in' period. Soon enough, he'd do whatever I told him just to have a few minutes with soap and toothpaste, or sat on a toilet.

"Please, Sir ..." he started.

"Oh dear, now, Chrissy boy. What did I say about begging? I'm afraid that adds another week to your sentence down here."

He frowned, screwing his eyes shut.

"Understood?"

"Yes, Sir."

I smiled at him. "Good. I mean it."

I can't bear slaves pleading. It is actually a sign of resistance, not submission. It plays on a Dom's merciful side. Like most sane players, there is a limit to my sadism. I had to train Chris and Jane to accept every decision of mine without challenge.

"Don't worry, I'm told that your stomach will get used to the loaf. If you're a good boy and eat it all up, I'll gradually introduce some alternative foods. But for now you must learn dietary discipline."

A few days on 'the Loaf' can apparently convert even the most hardened prisoners to docile inmates.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir." There were sweet tears in his eyes.

I showed him his disgusting meal.

"Hungry?"

"Er ... yes, Sir."

I nodded in approval. "Good. Take this."

He stood at ease and took the container from me. I fished a plastic spoon out of my pants, where it had been tucked amongst my pubic hairs.

"Now use this and wolf that yummy lunch down."

I gave him the spoon. He tentatively used it to carve a bite off the end.

"No, Chris." I warned. "Eat it fast. Or ..."

I leaned over and drooled a gob of my saliva onto the top of his food.

He hurriedly spooned a large mouthful of the loaf into his mouth and began to chew it. Then he prepared his next spoonful while he forced down the first. He gagged but controlled his reflex.

I chatted to him while he ate.

"Jane's making good progress. But she misses you. So you need to be a good boy or I'll keep you both apart for much longer than I planned. She's working hard now too. Real slave labour. And plenty of sex too, of course."

I reached out and tugged his diaper out from his waist. A pungent odour like ammonia made my nostrils twitch. I slid my fingers in the front and checked his steel cock tube. His dick would require a good wash soon. His eyes watered as he gagged on another mouthful. I could see his lips pursed to utter the 'p' sound of the word 'please'.

"Ssh." I warned him. "No begging. Eat up. And don't worry, Jane's absolutely fine. It's amazing how quickly her cock sucking skills are coming along. It's just a crying shame about all those wasted years. Still, she'll catch up. This afternoon I've got a gang of guys coming round for her first bukkake."

I glanced at my watch.

"Hey, well what do you know? They're due in five."

I stayed while he gulped down his entire meal.

"Catch you later, Chris." I said, locking his cell door. "Get back to attention and be sure to look at the camera. I'll be keeping an eye on you."

*** *** ***

SECTION TWO

Jane knelt in virtual darkness. A sliver of light came through the bottom of the velvet blindfold. She had no idea exactly what was going to happen, only that it would involve her mouth and it would be humiliating.

She had woken the previous morning with a thick, bitter-tasting residue on her tongue, a sign of detoxing. She had suffered several thumping 'withdrawal heachaches' but now her energy levels seemed to be on the rise. Incredibly, the face she saw in the bathroom mirror was becoming leaner, glowing and bright-eyed. The cloud of doubt and depression she'd suffered during the first 48 hours had been replaced by a 'fasting high'. She actually felt ready to face new challenges.

She had only tasted semen once in her first 30 years. She'd licked a little off her thumb maybe a decade earlier. It hadn't seemed to have much taste. But now, in just the past five days she'd already swallowed 9 orgasms. She'd gargled it, gulped it and even gobbled it off a spoon after dredging her vagina. Her Master's semen was revolting. There was no other word to describe it; lumpy, slimy and sour, especially in the mornings just after he awoke.