Bad Day

But I wasn't free. They still had me, naked and helpless and in pain, a mute participant in their cruel games for however long they wanted it to last.

As it turned out, it was going to last quite a long time.

Hours later, they seemed tired or bored of tormenting me. They silently confided in each other, as if acknowledging long held plans. "I hope he's got a long tongue," Darla said, fully aware that referring to me in the third person only served to demean me more. At that, Ginger giggled, rose and was replaced in front of me by wicked Darla. She reached behind her to pick something up off the bed and dangled it in front of me. The handcuff keys. I hoped for better, but could tell by her smile that she wasn't just going to give them to me.

She tucked them into her vagina.

"Well, I'm heading home," I heard Ginger say as she dressed.

"There's your way out of this," Darla said, pointing to her tight, juicy snatch.

I don't have a long tongue, and it is not very flexible, like some folks who can roll it into a sleeve. It's just an average tongue. It took me quite a while to even find the small silver keys, (she had put them in pretty deep with her thin dexterous fingers) and then another agonizing time pulling them out, millimeter by millimeter, with my tongue. I say agonizing because, every now and then, for no reason I could discern beyond cruelty, Darla would hit my ass or thighs with the riding crop. More than once it made me lose the keys. On reflection maybe she sensed when I was close to pulling them out and that was the reason for the occasional smack of the crop. Near the end of this newest ordeal, she bent low and inflicted me (pleasured me? I was in sensory overload) with another excruciating caress of my now quite bloated and sore cock. I had time to reflect as I worked that that was the member that had brought me into this humiliating predicament, starting all those Saturdays ago.

I kept the keys firmly in my mouth after I got them. I had no illusions that Darla could force me to give them up if she wanted to, bound as I was, but so close to freedom made me feel desperate. I watched her dress, not willing to expose the keys until she was gone. She packed up the frilly garments she had made me wear, and that brought my own clothes to mind. "Where are my clothes?" I asked her, the words slightly distorted by the handcuff keys still in my mouth. There was another distortion as well; I found that I had unconsciously pitched my tone as meek and non-threatening as I could. I didn't want to spend more time with Darla, especially in a wrathful mood, should I say something to piss her off.

"Ginger left them in the kitchen," Darla said as she left the room.

After I heard go down the stairs I set to work to free myself. It is more difficult than you think to, without being able to look, find the small handcuff keyhole and insert the key the proper way. I freed my left hand first as I am right handed and then set about untying the intricate knots the girls had put on me. First, of course, was the twine encasing my cock.

I couldn't help it; after all the stimulation I had received, I found masturbating irresistible. That in itself was rather agonizing too, what with the abuse my cock had suffered. Another legacy of this humiliating, bad, bad day.

I felt sore and exposed as I went down the stairs. The emptiness of the house seemed to enhance my nakedness. On the way down, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. Hardly recognizable. There were still traces of lipstick and makeup on my face and hand marks where I had been slapped but worst of all was noticing that I wasn't completely naked. I still had that damn dog collar padlocked around my neck. A wave of shame overcame me, of degradation. The only clothing I had on was the dog collar they had used to help enslave me. And as yet I had no way of removing it.

They had really worked me over. I could tell that on some places on my butt the skin had split. My ass and my cock had taken the worst of it, but there wasn't a square inch of my body Ginger and Darla hadn't abused.

Well, this ends it, I thought, and I couldn't help remembering that weeks ago I had used that phrase when I had decided to make our sex games real with my "spectacular ending" of our affair. It had been a brutal, humiliating, spectacular day, but I hoped that a rough equality of suffering had been effected between us.

But if I ever got hold of Darla...

When I got to the kitchen I didn't immediately see my clothes. But there was a note attached to the refrigerator. I noticed also the washer/dryer had remained. No doubt rented with the house originally. The note said:

Your clothes are in the washing machine. You can dry them later.

Jesus, I thought; she put me through all that and then does- well, what a competent housewife would do, I guess- throw her "guests" clothes in the washing machine for them.

I sure never wanted to be her guest again. I was glad to be shut of the whole affair. I went over to the washing machine; it had completed its cycle, and Ginger and I had completed ours. I suffered, I thought, but that served to put a full stop on the affair. The scorned woman had exacted her vengeance. I knew the type. She, now free as she was, pretty and sexy as she was, would simply go on to a new affair, a new lover.

I opened the old-fashioned top loading washing machine.

I found I was staring down into the washing machine, trying to comprehend. These were not my clothes. These were women's clothes; panties and bras and so forth. All very feminine, very frilly. As I lifted the clothes out, hoping that my clothes were underneath the lady garments, a piece of paper (not at all wet—she must have washed the clothes sometime during my day of torture and inserted the note when she left) fluttered apart.

My clothes were not anywhere to be seen. I stood there dumbly holding this collection of lingerie and frilly underthings until I thought to put them aside and read the note Ginger had left. This note said:

I guess you thought it was over between us. I'll tell you when it's over. I hope you didn't have plans with your lady friend Pamela the rest of this weekend. I have some chores for you to do before you go.

Chores? Fuck that, I thought. I read the rest of the note:

The next note is in the dryer.

I thought, maybe my clothes are in there... but they weren't. Just, as expected, another piece of paper, but no mere Post-it note. I unfolded it, dread settling into my chest.

By now you must have realized that you can't leave this house. I have taken your clothes and left you with things you wouldn't be caught dead in (except today, right, little housewife?). Maybe you'll decide to risk trying to get back to your snug little apartment stark naked. Good luck with that. It's several blocks away and the neighborhoods, like this one, are a bit dangerous. Probably pretty dangerous for sure for a naked man with no I.D., or keys, or anything. You'll be lucky if the cops pick you up, and won't that be a lot of fun?

It'll be interesting to see what your choice is.

If you decide on the wiser course, here is a list of things I want done by the time I get back.

Take the clothes out of the dryer and put them on, or not, I don't care. But there'll be a penalty if you're not wearing something. I'll decide what else you'll be wearing later.

Scrub the kitchen floor. You'll find detergent, a bucket and scrub brushes under the sink. Sorry, no mop. You'll have to clean the floor on your hands and knees.

Check the refrigerator to see if it is defrosted yet.

Straighten up the bedroom upstairs. We had quite a day, didn't we?

Sweep up generally all over the house. I think there's a broom in the closet next to the dryer.

Do some dusting. I think there's a feather duster upstairs. If not, use one of the more worn items I left you. Aren't they pretty?

Put the handcuffs back on and be waiting for me, all chores done, like a good little housewife. I'm sure we both know what happens to bad little housewives. We will discuss where you are going to sleep tonight.

Love, Ginger.

P.S. I took your keys and moved your car far far away.

What an innocuous sign off for such a startling letter, so full of demands, I thought. Evidently she thought we were now going to enter into some long term even more kinky relationship but I had no desire to be feminized or in any way suffer any more abuse from Ginger. She was too inventive, and too charged by revenge.

But my thoughts were broken by the sound of a key turning in the front door lock. Ginger? Back so soon? And I was right. When I re-entered the living room there she was. And I immediately knew what to do. Simply grab her and force her to tell me where my clothes were. When I advanced on her she stepped quickly back to the doorway and held up, like a totem, her cell phone. "If you try anything this phone will dial 911 with one touch. And you know what I'll say? I'll say there's a naked ex-lover here trying some very inappropriate things and that he has a menacing attitude. The cops will be here before you know it, and I'll be safely outside, sitting in my car, waiting for them to arrive and take the bad man away. If you can maintain a calm demeanor you may actually manage to make them believe at least some of the facts but my, what an embarrassing time that will be." She smiled wickedly. "So I suggest you get busy with your housekeeping, my sweet little housewife. I'll give you an hour. And when I get back you'd better be wearing those handcuffs, and I mean behind your back, or I'll carry through with my threat."

And then she smiled again and left. I guess she felt pretty sure of my decision. My only two options were both humiliating. But staying here another night under Ginger's thumb, with whatever she had planned for me beyond chores, would at least be a private affair, with no cops or any other public exposure. It would just be between me and her. Or at worst, Ginger and Darla. I shuddered at that thought.

Or... maybe I would have a chance to trick her into thinking the handcuffs were locked when they weren't. I wasn't back in them yet. I was still free and unfettered. My plan was to somehow jump her before she dialed the authorities, which I had no doubt she would if pushed far enough. I resolved then that on no account would I allow her to capture me again.

But was I to do for an hour? Actually do the chores? I remembered part of the letter had something ominous about the things that happened to "bad housewives." Well, if I had my way when she got back, she'd be filling that unappealing role, not me.

I decided to fill the time with experimenting with the handcuffs, try to make it look like they were locked. I was sure she would inspect them from a safe distance.

It took many tries, and sometimes I would click them too far and they would lock. (Naturally I took care not to put both hands in the cuffs) but soon I was satisfied that I would be able to fool her.

I was waiting for her when she arrived, standing in the living room, still naked, (I couldn't bring myself to put on the frilly underthings and besides, I felt pretty sure of regaining my own clothes very soon), my hands behind my back. She stayed in the doorway and held the cellphone out menacingly, telling me to turn around. I did so. She was apparently trying to inspect the cuffs from a distance. "Okay," she said. "I am giving you 5 seconds to back up toward me, then get on your knees." I did as she told me, and then stood there, getting ready to fully release my cuffs and turn and overpower her.

"If you don't get on your knees right now," she said, "I'm calling the cops. Go ahead, try me." I heard her back up. Too far to release myself while turning and try to catch her before she called the cops. So I went to my knees. I knew my options were narrowing but thought I might still be able to knock her off her feet and keep her busy long enough to free myself before she hit the 911 button. Just as soon as she got close enough... "Now lay on your stomach," she said. I could tell she hadn't moved from the doorway. Realizing my chances of escape were still diminishing, I nevertheless did as she told me. "Now spread your legs as far apart as you can." When I did I heard her approach very fast. Then she had her hands on my cuffed wrists, I heard them click home, and then...just like that my escape plans had been foiled. I was her captive again.

Now, smiling that merciless smile, Ginger told me to get up, which I did, awkwardly, resigning myself to some more punishment. She stood in front of me and then produced a leash, which she attached to the dog collar around my neck. Then she calmly turned, the end of the leash held over her shoulder and pulled, forcing me to climb the stairs after her.

So she had me again. And my torment began anew. Now more than one bad day was in the offing. We entered the room of my apparently continuing agony.

First, of course, the "bad housewife" had to be punished for not doing her chores. "Did you enjoy your few moments of freedom?" she asked me. "Too bad you didn't use the time to do what I told you to do. Now you'll suffer and you'll end up doing those chores anyway. So what did we gain, huh?" she asked me, making a mock pout. Now I noticed she had a shopping bag with her. She led me to the bed and dumped its contents out. There were leather cuffs, gags, paddles, dildoes, whips, and other things I couldn't immediately identify. I would get to know them all intimately.

And now, my punishment. The first thing she did, of course, was torture my cock. I watched as she entwined it like she had before and then stroke it, several times, to get it hard. Then she tied a pink ribbon around the cock head. "Down on your knees," she ordered. I did as she said. She took a wide belt and fastened it around my waist. When I looked down at it I saw it was festooned with several D rings. I felt a leather cuff go around my left wrist, and a padlock securing it. She did the same thing with my ankles. Then around my right wrist, again a leather binder. Then leather around both my legs, above my knees. Again, padlocks, again D rings. She ran a chain through the rings on the belt, then through a ring through the leather on my left knee. She attached the chain between the cuffs to a D ring on the waist belt. I felt her unfasten the handcuff on my left wrist. I thought I met have a chance to get free, make her pay for all the humiliation. But it was not to be. I felt her pull, really hard, on the padlocked leather around my wrist. I couldn't stop her. My wrist soon joined the leather cuff around my left knee. She did the same thing with the right wrist. I heard her chuckle with satisfaction. Now my wrists were connected to my knees, with about 4 inches of play between them. I was trapped on my hands and knees. She took another chain and connected a D ring on my neck collar to the twine around my dick. Then she used more twine to connect the wrists cuffs to my dick. I couldn't reach it. "Okay," she sighed, "time for you to do your chores. I told you that you were still going to do them. You could have done them voluntarily, my little housewife. Now you'll do them," and I saw her pick up a horse crop, "or else, you get this." She brought the crop down on the small of my back. The pain was sharp, like a thousand needles penetrating my skin. It actually left me breathless. "Downstairs with you," she said, and kicked me in the butt. "You'll scrub the kitchen floor on your hands and knees and then we'll decide what you do next." I saw out of the corner of my left eye her raise the crop again. "Get going," she said. Do I need to reiterate how surreal, how degrading it is to find yourself enslaved, with no options, forced to obey another person, and even more, to be used sexually by them?

At any rate, I did as she ordered, crawling like an animal out of the bedroom and into the hallway. Every time I moved I pulled my own dick. Wincing with every motion, I made a difficult, vertiginous crawl down the stairs. She followed me, occasionally prodding my ass with the crop. When I finally made it to the kitchen she walked ahead of me and, opening a lower cupboard, she pulled a bucket and a sponge out of it and threw the sponge down in front of me. Then she filled the bucket full of water and detergent and set it down alongside the sponge. "Get to work," she said. Again she brought the crop down on my back, this time, twice. I gritted my teeth in anger and pain. I wanted to tell Ginger to go to hell. I wanted to, somehow, defy her. But I couldn't stand the pain. Again I blushed with shame. I had to resign myself to the fact that, at least for now, I was her slave, her "little housewife." I took up the sponge and dipped it into the suds filled water. I heard her giggle as she walked confidently away.

Having no choice, I began to do the chore that she had demanded I do. There I was, trapped on my hands and knees, naked, tied and chained, shaved hairless except for my head, my dick tumescent and entwined, and forced to do this useless task in a mostly abandoned household. I had no way of telling time, but it seemed like an hour or so before Ginger returned. And, with her, to my chagrin, and even fear, stood Darla. Worse, there were other women behind her. Some fat, some thin, some ugly, some marginally attractive, and all smiling wickedly at my predicament. Darla had a paddle in her hand. "It's party time, little housewife," she said. "Time to go upstairs."

"Yeah," Ginger said, smiling. "You can do the rest of your chores later." There was a general buzz behind me among the women as I slowly, painfully climbed upstairs. I didn't need to be whipped again. I dutifully crawled into the room of pain, and knelt there by the bed, waiting for whatever was going to happen again. I felt Ginger kneel beside me, and to my surprise, begin to unlock the intricate bonds she had put on me a couple of hours before. Here's my chance, I thought. But I hadn't considered the notion that I was outnumbered by half a dozen women, including Ginger and Darla, and I was to find out soon enough, one of them had a taser. She handed it to Darla, who gleefully held it up in front of my face, triggering it so I could see the arc of electricity between the nodes. "On your feet," Darla said. I did so. Ginger, then, produced a red garment. Unfolded, I could see that it was a camisole. "Put it on," she said. Wearing the camisole was not necessary for what they planned to do to me; it was merely to cause more humiliation. And I found myself acquiescing to it. I began to wonder if my docility was strategic or becoming ingrained. Anyway, to avoid more pain, I did as ordered. I put the camisole on. And found, after it fit snugly, that my cock protruded through an opening in the crotch. The girls all had a laugh at this. I didn't think it was all that funny. Even less so after a leash was secured to the mortifying twine that still encircled my cock. There were several camera flashes. Now here came the cuffs again. I didn't even try to resist. I knew my chances of escape were virtually nil, considering how many hands there were to force my "cooperation," let alone the threat of the taser. And of course, were I to escape, I was miles away from my apartment and without clothes. More flashes of cameras.

So, once again, my hands were restrained behind my back. My knees and ankles were then roped tightly. I was forced to hop onto the bed, belly down. Another rope was used to connect my handcuffed wrists to my ankles, a rather ruthless hogtie. And, soon enough, I had a pussy in front of my face. I couldn't even raise my face enough to see whose it was. Everyone was laughing and hooting but me. "He's not doing anything," I heard the owner of the faceless pussy say. And right after that, I felt Darla's paddle come down on my ass. It didn't hurt as much as Ginger's crop, but it was enough impetus for me to know what was expected of me. "Come on, little housewife," I heard someone say as the faceless pussy's thighs encased my head. "Time to go to work." And then the paddle again. And, if I'm right, Ginger's crop on the small of my back. It hurt every bit as it had before. So I did what was expected, what was necessary, to prevent more pain. I wriggled toward the faceless pussy, my hands cuffed behind my back, my ankles practically connected to my wrists, and went to work with my enslaved lips, my enslaved tongue.