Sausages for the Slave Ch. 03

It was all just a cruel game to her, like a cat playing with a mouse. I was the plaything. She was slowly running her fingers up my arm again and paused near my face: A tease. I so wanted to lean my face against that cruel hand, but didn't. What would be the point? I waited. Three vicious lashes of the belt scored into my shoulders, making my back try to arch up in pain, till the sharp pull of my wrist restraints caused me to jerk me back down on to the table. Bette walked back around the top of the table slapping it with the belt as she went, and then slowly slid her fingers up my other arm. What to do? I got a lash for seeking comfort, and three lashes for not. There was no comfort to be had in leaning my cheek into her hand now. But I tried it anyway. She caressed me gently again and then gave me another five lashes of the belt. My back was really sore and stinging now. She walked around to the other side again, slapping the belt regularly of the table edge as she went in time to my pathetic sobbing. I was just being sorry for myself now. She wasn't sorry for me. She gave me five more lashes before the belt went back into her box. There were no more implements of punishment on the table. I could make out the clock on the wall behind her, only another ten minutes had passed. Maybe it was over.

We were not done. Bette remained standing at the top of the table. I could see that she was fiddling with her utility belt. She shifted it around so that one of the tool/pocket extension things hung down from the front instead of to the side. She reached into her tool box and pulled out a cow's horn. Not a dildo that looked like a cow's horn. It was an actual cow's horn. I'm familiar with it from previous 'enforcements.' Bette had fashioned it so she could use it as a dildo for her purposes. The horn was short and wide at the base with a slight curve up to a blunt rounded tip. It was a dull grey colour shading to black at the tip. Like something that the Knights of the Round Table would drink their mead out of. Bette fitted the horn to a stubby extension on the front of the utility belt. No mistaking its purpose now as it swayed out in front of her crotch like a very fat misshapen curved penis.

She walked over to the left side of the table and stopped beside my tied hand. Without any further prompting I opened my hand, twisting the palm upwards. Bette cleared her throat and spat a good gob of her spit into my open hand. I felt the warm sticky phlegm land in the middle of my palm. She moved the horn over my hand and I grasped it with my bound hand as best I could, sliding up and down the shaft of the horn, lubricating it with her spit. This was in my own interest after all. Bette helped by moved the horn in and out along the length of my palm as I tried to spread the mucous from tip to base. Her tool belt jangled once with each gentle thrust and each time my asshole gave an involuntary quiver and clench. She moved around the top of the table to the other side, giving me, on her way past, a good look at the horn protruding out about seven inches from her crotch.

I gratefully received the second gob of warm phlegm into my right hand and rubbed it around the horn same as with the left hand. All the while my ass cheeks burned and throbbed from the caning and my shoulders stung from the flogging. The surface of the horn was not smooth and polished. It felt more like the surface of an old bone you might find in the garden; dry and a bit porous, slightly rough. Maybe it was an old discarded horn she'd found in her barn, or maybe that's the way cow horns are actually. Either way, my attempts at lubrication were largely ineffective. The spit seemed to just soak in to the horn's surface. Again I felt Bette was just toying with me, having me feverously twisting my bound hands in my attempt to lubricate the thing that wouldn't lubricate, while my ass quivered and puckered with the fright of the forced fucking in prospect.

Bette moved behind me without saying anything. It was quiet. No doubt people were going about their daily business on the road outside. Life was normal, I was about to be entered forcibly from behind. I felt her tool belt rub up between my stretched buttocks and upper thighs. She ran a latex gloved finger around the rim of my asshole, probably just to see it squirm and attempt to shut tight. I knew what to do and, fighting my instinct, and my asshole's reflexes, I pushed it open as much as I could, hoping that I could get the pink moist inner walls open to receive her before she started to force her way into me. I was being a good compliant victim. I was helping my tormentor to torture me better. Bette's' two hands gripped me firmly on either side of my waist and I felt the tip of the horn butt up against my asshole as she positioned herself to begin thrusting into me. As soon as the tip touched, my asshole shrank tightly shut despite my best plans. Logic can only get you so far. Bette didn't do gentle and she didn't wait for me to try again. Her fingers gripped hard into my sides and she rammed the horn all the way into my ass, right up to the hilt; all in one go. I could feel screwdrivers and whatever else was hanging off that utility belt scratch the insides of my ass cheeks as she thrust in and wriggled around a bit.

The shock of being so violently entered and assaulted was the first sensation. It quickly gave way to a hot, stinging, burning pain. She pulled out completely and quickly thrust in again, now setting up a steady rhythm once my sphincter has been forced open and had yielded to her. I was moaning and baaing through my gag. The initial sensation was of a dry, rasping rubbing. There was no smoothness, just hurt. Each time she pulled out, the horn did not slide out; it pulled out, pulling my asshole out with it. It felt like I was being turned inside out down there. After about five thrusts in and out, she would pull out completely, pause and repeat the cycle. There was no sound from her other than the rhythmic jangling of the tools in her utility belt as it slapped against my already sore buttocks. After four cycles of this she pulled the horn out for the last time and stepped away from between my legs. I waited, still sobbing, my distended asshole throbbing painfully. I didn't dare to hope it was over.

I could see Bette go over to the sink, remove her horn from the belt and run it under the tap. She wrapped it in a few sheets of paper towel and put it back in her took box. I lay still, tried to quiet my sobbing, hoping not to attract her attention. My asshole felt big, puffy and sore, the cheeks of my ass were very sore, I'd forgotten about my shoulders, but they were sore too. Bette sat down on the chair in front of me and got out her phone. I could hear her say hi to somebody and that she was just finishing up one job and would be there in twenty minutes. So that was it then. I was ticked off her do list for the day. Job done. Bold boy put in his place; until the next time, no doubt. She quickly untied me from the table and put her leather strops back in her box. Then she put the leather collar and cuffs on me. The collar clips around my neck and the cuffs hang from it on a few inches of chain so I have restricted movement of my hands. I can't reach to my waist, maybe to my belly button. Her final act is to have me step into the white cotton panties. She pulls them up for me. An intimate moment: I feel like a toddler again and my Mother is pulling up my pants. I waited for Bette to unlock the helmet and gag and remove them. She didn't.

She picked up her tool box and said, 'open the door.' I hurried to get ahead of her, bumping into the kitchen doorway in my haste, in my pain and with my blurred vision. With my hands cuffed below my chin, I managed to fumble the front door open and stood beside it, my burning ass pressed against the wall. Bette walked past me without a glance, scrolling through some numbers on her phone. I stood there until she got into her pickup and drove away. Then I shut the door. If I could have spoken I'd have reminded her about the helmet, but maybe that was part of the plan.

I had jobs to do. They were all listed on the jobs list. No time to wallow in self pity. It had happened. It was over. My wife always expects to see immediate and positive results in the aftermath of an enforcement. She believes in behavioural modification therapy. You put in the effort on your subject, your subject will respond appropriately. If not, you need to put in more effort till you get the required response. Best to avoid going down that road. Even with the disadvantage of the mask and the restricted movement of my hands I set about doing my jobs diligently. I had each job ticked off on the jobs tablet, her dinner prepared and the table set for one when I heard the phone on the tablet ringing. I raced to my room and stood on the white line four feet back from the tablet which was mounted in the wall at head height. That way she could see the whole of me.

"Have you been a good boy?"

"Baa-aaa"

"Turn around and let me see you." I turned around facing away from the tablet and waited.

"My, but hasn't somebody been in the wars. It looks like you are having your period down there. Have you turned into a sissy girl?"

"Baa-aaa, baa-aaa"

"Well, whatever, see you in fifteen minutes. I'll tell you all about my day then."

"Baa-aaa"

Her casserole was in the oven on a low heat, her favourite glass of red wine poured and breathing on the table. Her battered, bloodied and very obedient husband was standing by the door from the garage into the hall ready to receive her coat and bag as she came in. Can it get any better than this she wondered as she turned her new car into the driveway of her luxury home.