Our Happy Slave (3/?) {Redman} {F mast MF md anal Rom} 
(c) October 2000 

Authors Note: I would be interested in any comments or 
corrections that readers might care to share with me. 
I can be reached at redman@seductive.com. 

Also, this work is not intended to be read by minors. 
If you are not legally an adult in your country or 
culture, please do not read it. This story is a work 
of fiction. Everything in it is a product of my own 
imagination and does not represent the way that anyone 
of any age should be treated or to represent a norm of 
acceptable behavior. 


Our Happy Slave 3/?



Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:-Do I wake or sleep?
John Keats - Ode to a Nightingale


My wife was laid out, slick with oil on our massage 
table. This had been our nightly ritual for almost a 
year. Her skin glowing and completely relaxed. The 
only difference to our routine had been the addition 
of our slave, Connie. She sits on a chair reading 
poetry: Keats, Shelley, Browning (both) and Rossetti. 
More often lately she would recite my wife's favorites 
from memory. I had gained a deep appreciation of her 
ability to learn: she was our sponge, absorbing 
whatever we threw at her.

But, as beautiful as her lilting, clear voice was - as 
much as I enjoyed the poetry - she was also a major 
distraction. She was sitting naked in the chair with 
the long, thin vibrator, sliding it slowly in and out 
as she spoke. By my wife's dictum she was not allowed 
to climax, but connie stroked it into herself for 
comfort and amusement.  

Massage is like a dance around your partner's body. 
You should never be in one place for very long, 
gradually kneeding the whole body. As I would pass 
between the two orbits of my world, Connie would 
sometimes hold the vibrator out toward my nose as I 
passed. She not only wanted me to smell its pungent 
aroma, which I did, but she would wait until I ran a 
thick, clear line of the warm oil along its length. 
When I turned my attentions back toward my wife, I 
would hear a soft flutter in our slaves voice as she 
returned it to her sheath.

So I`d dance, round and round, as the little room grew 
thick with the smell of warm oil, fragrant cunt and 
Romantic period poetry. These sessions last anywhere 
from 45 minutes to an hour depending on the stress of 
my wife's day. As the time passed, Connie's voice 
would grow softer and softer and my own stroking would 
grow lighter and lighter. The end would be greeted 
with the rhythmic, calming snore of a satisfied woman. 

My reward for this is twofold. First, I received a 
happy, sated wife who would overlook many of my faults 
for these pleasures. And second, while she dozed I 
would gather up our little slave and fuck her quietly, 
to the beat of my wife's breathing. Connie would 
writhe delightfully and I would plunge into her 
deeply: the goal being not solely our own, sensual 
pleasure but the perverse delight of attempting to 
make the other groan, squeal or moan enough to wake 
the sleeper.

On this particular occasion, about half way through 
the session and at the commencement of "Ode to a 
Nightingale," Connie held out not the plastic device I 
was expecting, but the first two fingers of her left 
hand.

It's astonishing what can be communicated with a 
simply gesture. With this motion, my slave sent a wave 
of desire through me and a vision of the near future I 
was sure to appreciate.

When I could catch my breath, I coated those two slim 
fingers with a thick supply of the oil and maneuvered 
around my wife until I could watch Connie at the same 
time. As her sweet voice softly spoke the words of 
Keats, she seductively lowered those two thin fingers 
until she liberally coated the exterior of her anus 
with the oil. Our eyes locked together, but it could 
not have been any clearer to me when her finger 
penetrated ass. Her voice lowered and became 
noticeably huskier even though she never lost the 
cadence of either the verse or the oscillating dildo 
in her other hand.

My fingers when into stealth mode. I gently caressed 
my wife, easing her as quickly as possible into 
maximum relaxation. I danced around her, lightly 
stroking from her neck to her feet. Only once did 
Connie have me re-lube both her digits and her device 
and we were soon rewarded with the shallow, steady 
breathing of my bride.

Connie's eyes were glassy and her own breathing was 
shallow and ragged as she drew the poem closed in a 
croaking whisper. My own eyes drew her like magnets 
until she noiselessly rose and squatted before me on 
the floor on hands and knees. I dropped onto the thick 
matting of the massage room and took the oil bottle, 
squirting a generous blast into her loose and pliable 
rectum. As I applied its own generous coating to my 
throbbing penis, I prayed that I would not cum too 
quickly.

She rocked completely forward as I advanced with my 
slick tool until the tip of my circumcised head 
touched her rosette. A shiver ran down her spine, 
through her ass and continued its track through by my 
own shuddering cock. With a low growl she began, ever 
so slowly to rock back on my stiff rod. My job was to 
stay as still as I could convince my hips to be. I 
longed to thrust mightily in her, spearing her 
quickly. Instead, I watched fascinated as she slowly 
engulfed me like an anaconda engulfing its prey.

When my crown passed in, we both quaked. She was 
hotter than I could imagine and there was an earthy 
smell that wafted up to me, making me dizzy. I 
imagined that the earth was opening me up and the 
Great Mother of All Things was embracing me to her 
buxom. When she had slid completely back, my spine 
melted as I collapsed forward, leaning heavily on her.

She held still for an endless moment, two joined 
completely. Her hips swayed seductively ever so 
slightly from side to side. When she began to rock, my 
own hips moved with her like an equestrian astride a 
magnificent beast. I began to rise up off her and as I 
did so my right hand snaked underneath her and found 
the control of the vibrator protruding from her labia 
and slowly turned it to the first setting.

Connie jerked convulsively as the device engaged and 
her hips froze. I straightened up completely; 
stretching to the pulse that burned along my shaft 
buried within her. Within her pussy, the thin vibrator 
hummed and I could feel her muscles through my cock 
clenching it, squeezing it. I began my own slow 
stroke, holding her hips firmly. The vibrating that 
came within her necessitated that my strokes were 
shallow things, but each tiny movement was magnified 
until it seemed as though I were pummeling her 
unmercifully.

I saw her reach beneath herself with a hand and I knew 
that her fingers were beginning to stroke her 
clitoris. I could feel my balls tightening and in the 
silence of our coupling, I finally heard a mechanical 
click, experiencing the renewed vigor of the device's 
second setting. The sensation was electrifying. It was 
as though my cock was thrust into a low electric 
current run through hot butter wrapped in a tight 
elastic sheath.

I could feel her colon sucking my semen through my 
cock like a straw. Vast quantities of sperm collected 
in my testicles or my prostate or wherever the troops 
gather for the invasion. This was D-Day, it was 
Waterloo, and it was glorious. I held them back for 
one final, smashing charge as they danced in me, eager 
for victory.

When I felt the vibrator shift into third gear, the 
boys could be restrained no more. My cock roared like 
a thoroughbred out of the gate, thundering to the 
sprint. I'm not sure what was pulsing more, my own 
dick or the vibrator clenched deep within her but it 
was as though we all were cycling at 220 volts. I felt 
her tighten down on me, on the vibrator and on the 
floor mat as she came in a gut-wrenching convulsion.

* * * * *

An eternity later, I was laying in the bed on my side 
as my little slave rubbed her cunt slowly across the 
arch of my foot between her thighs. She was suckling 
my shriveled, limp dick; both of us too exhausted to 
cum again. I didn't know how existence could be 
sweeter until my voluptuous wife crawled into bed with 
us; pressing against my backside smelling like warm, 
fresh bread dipped in olive oil.

"I guess she asked you to fuck her ass again," she 
murmured half asleep.

"How did you know?"

"You're letting her sleep in the bed again. It's 
getting to be a habit," she said yawning and nuzzling 
into my neck while pressing herself deliciously 
against me.

"There's a lot of habits developing lately," I sighed.

Following a slurp, we both heard Connie whisper, "I 
like this habit."

"Go to sleep, you little slut," I heard my wife tease. 
"You have to wake up early and fix me breakfast."

The last thing I remember is the brushing across my 
hip as my wife caressed the soft cheek of our slave as 
she resumed suckling me.