Sweetness & Blight

Title Page

Sweetness and Blight

by Lance Edwards

ISBN: 978-1-938897-98-6

A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication

Copyright © 2014, All rights reserved

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Prologue

Miserable beyond description, tortured physically and emotionally in ways I hesitate to enumerate, I weep unceasingly. As always when suffering such myriad woes, most of all the maddeningly arousing lesbian frolicking going on in my former marital bed before me (the orgy is now well into its third hour), I obsess on the paradox that is my gorgeous young wife.

Amelia is unfailingly soft-spoken. She has never raised her voice to me or used harsh language in over five seemingly endless years of marriage. She never expresses anger, only gentle scolding or sorrowful disappointment. She is always genuinely affectionate toward me: full of laughter, touches, teasing, and convincing commiseration for my inescapable predicament. She truly loves me dearly. But she must live the way she must, the way her appetites and upbringing dictate. Thus she is at the same time unconscionably cruel to me.

From using sweetly smiling insistence to the most appalling blackmail she rules over me absolutely. She is relentlessly adamant in enforcing her every whim from the most fleeting and trifling to the truly monstrous and eternal. And all the while she is scrupulously polite, enchantingly vivacious, wonderfully loving and so unbelievably sexy that my unrelieved yearning for her forms the greatest torment of all. I am trapped more hopelessly by my pathetic love and need than all of her insidiously arranged circumstances, constant bondage or even the terribly confining cage I currently occupy.

This fills an alcove at the head of the bed, giving me a view of the entire master suite. Right now that view is obstructed only by the stainless steel bars (set five inches apart) that form the sliding door at the front of what I suppose could be more properly called a cell. After all, this is where I’m exclusively imprisoned when not performing the chores and services required of me – or suffering my regular recreational uses. Of course, if Amelia wishes to further close me away she can slide and lock shut an additional glass door, soundproofed oak panel or both. Naturally the former is required when she wishes to activate the water jets, for cleaning or torture purposes. These are set all around the tiled walls, floor and ceiling of this six foot-square, twelve foot-high enclosure in the manner of a car wash.

The adjustable nozzles can blast me with streams or sprays of terrible force and precision from any or every angle and at temperatures from icy to scalding. The water can hammer me like a bludgeon, pulsate erotically or gently cleanse me before draining away through the same outflow that removes whatever waste I pass. Likewise numerous lights can be focused blindingly on me, softly accent the spectacle I present, play psychedelically over my body in kaleidoscopic patterns and colors or leave me adrift in absolute blackness. There are even over two dozen wired contacts that can be clipped to my most sensitive spots to deliver punishing electric shocks in any programmable variation.

The CIA’s black sites have nothing on this place. Yet not even regular confinement to my cage is limiting enough for my diabolical Goddess. I am also always kept in far more restrictive restraints, even when performing my daily chores. And when as now my only duty is to suffer and/or jealously observe her at rest or play my bondage is cruelly extreme.

Since the floor of the cage in nearly two feet below the level of the bed I’m always kept dangling in midair. A single bar like a trapeze hangs from a pair of retractable cables in the ceiling. Straps and shackles festoon its five-foot length and keep me helplessly bound to it in truly agonizing fashion. With my forearms overlapping each other behind me and secured to the middle at the wrists and elbows, my spread legs are bent way back with my ankles shackled to either end. The bowing of my spine is thus torturously extreme. And this condition is exacerbated by the hours-long drag of gravity on my sway-backed torso. Almost as terrible is the strain this creates on my hips and shoulders, which feel practically wrenched out of their sockets after all this time. Even my neck is under unrelenting stress. A short chain runs taut from the trapeze to the back of a harness about my head, keeping this stretched radically back and forcing me to face straight forward at the action on the bed.

In addition to this simple yet monstrous bondage a number of wicked embellishments torture me further. The centerpiece of that elaborate head harness is a large steel ring wedged upright between my teeth, keeping my jaws sprung achingly wide and my mouth gaping like a landed fish. My tongue is drawn out through that ring to its very limit and clamped between a pair of rubber-banded chopsticks which rest snugly against the ring on either side, preventing any withdrawal. From a smaller steel ring threaded permanently through a piercing in the end of my tongue hangs a heavy lead weight, further stretching me painfully out.

Similar weights dangle from identical rings and piercings in my n*****s, navel and the head of my p***s where it protrudes from the tight steel chastity device I’ve worn for over four straight years. All of these are an agony to me to me. But worst of all is the enormous, ceaselessly vibrating plug immensely stuffing my rectum. This remains in place almost around the clock, keeping my anus and sphincter receptively stretched for the agonizing and mortifying and hatefully arousing time when I’m inevitably required to join in – and become the hideously reluctant focus of – tonight’s interminable lesbian orgy.

It’s bad enough that I’m made to look the part of a lesbian too.

Within the complex straps of my head harness my hair (dyed a bight platinum blonde) is cut in a classic pageboy style. My face is heavily made-up as always with lipstick, foundation, blush, eyeliner, mascara and three different shades of eye shadow. Specially designed en point shoes with cruelly crimping toes and exceptionally high heels are locked onto my feet as usual. Most humiliating of all though is the lingerie I’m forced to wear.

Today I’m all in scandalously hot pink. A wide silk ribbon about my throat is tied at one side in an elaborate bow and my fishnet stockings are clipped by frilly little garters to a ruffle-trimmed (and absolutely suffocating) girdle. My lace panties and bra feature slits that let my n*****s and caged genitals protrude through, as well as providing access to my endlessly violated ass. Yet as mortifying and torturous as my predicament is, I know from years of experience that it is soon to become unendurably worse. The extended foreplay I was the focus of before being bound and locked away to watch has left me extensively bruised and welted all over – as well as with a bloated-full belly and an unspeakably vile taste in and on my locked-open mouth and stretched-out tongue. But it’s being forced into yet another long night of s****l congress as an unwilling faux lesbian myself that I truly shudder to contemplate.

You would think romping on a giant bed with six gloriously beautiful young women would be heaven. And despite the brutal indignities that await me as they viciously take their pleasure from my bound and helpless body I indeed can’t help but be miserably aroused by such intimate proximity to so much delectably nubile and voraciously lubricious female flesh. Unfortunately, I know for a fact that this will just prove the most maddening torture of all.

As I indicated, my chastity sleeve has remained in place since it was locked onto me in the first year of our marriage.

I haven’t experienced a single orgasm or even erection in years – only excruciating pain in my imprisoned genitals along with endlessly accumulating carnal frustration. And I’m assured on at least a daily basis that this will be my lot forever. The cruel steel torturing me will never be removed. The key and lock both have long since been destroyed. After heaven knows how many further decades of inconceivable torment I will be buried just as I am: cosmeticized, cross-dressed, rectally stuffed and with my eternally suppressed manhood locked implacably up.

“What do you think, girls?” asks Amelia with a tinkling little laugh. She has just pulled the massive erection curving up from her crotch from the shaved p***y of her current favorite lover. “Has poor Charlene been cuckolded enough for one night? Shall we allow our honorary lesbian the privilege of being our b***h yet?”

A chorus of eager affirmation greets this suggestion. As my wickedly grinning wife turns and moves toward me hanging helpless in my cage I shudder yet again in dreaded resignation. How could my wonderfully promising and even briefly paradisiacal marriage have come to this?