Chapter 1: Breaking Vows I

“Turn around,” Patrick Accuardi told a naked, kneeling Myrtle Holland, the woman he was presently fucking doggy style. “I wanna cum in your mouth.”

As Patrick spoke, he withdrew his penis from Myrtle’s vagina. She scooted around and eagerly fastened her red-lipsticked mouth on his hard, sex-slickened rod. As he had carefully trained her to do, she took Patrick’s balls in a firm yet gentle grasp with her manicured, red-nailed hands.

Still on the fresh side of fifty, Myrtle was an average-looking woman with reddish-brown hair cut au garcon and a rather too large-breasted but otherwise impeccable figure. Her dark brown eyes were wide and clear, and she retained a slight accent from her eastern European childhood, more pronounced whenever she got excited or aroused.

Grunting, Patrick drove his rod down Myrtle’s throat, briefly gagging her. But she recovered nicely and a moment later was joyously bobbing her head, determined to make Patrick ejaculate, and please him with her newly acquired cocksucking skills. She put her left hand flat on the bed, her right hand cupping his balls, rolling and squeezing them, as he had also taught her to do.

Myrtle’s permanented hair had black roots, the blond, twenty-nine year old Patrick noted, as she tenderly sucked him. She said she was forty-two, but acted younger, had a fine body and an insatiable sexual appetite.

Despite Patrick’s previously avowed resolve to remain uninvolved in any kind of hook up while living in Newport, he had broken his vow because Myrtle was leaving soon. Recently, Myrtle had accepted a job in Jefferson City, one hundred plus miles away. If he so decided, Patrick would not have to see her again. A distance of one hundred miles was considerable.

Meanwhile, up and down Patrick’s rod Myrtle’s mouth moved. She really was getting good at sucking it, taking his directions with fervent enthusiasm. He could feel the cum building up in his glands, preparing to release it in a series of thick, liquid spurts. He saw Myrtle’s left hand start to drift to the space between her legs.

“No! Don’t diddle yourself while you’re sucking me,” Patrick said, sharply, before Myrtle reached her clit. “Keep your hands on me, Myrtle. Focus on me.”

“Um hum,” Myrtle replied, cupping his testicles in both hands again, while not skipping a beat.

“After I’ve cum, and it stops spurting,” Patrick went on, “You stay on it and suck hard, like I’ve taught you. There is always a little left in the base and I expect you to suck it out and swallow along with the rest. That’s how it’s supposed to be done. and I want you to remember.”

“Um hum,” Myrtle murmured, agreeably.

In truth, she was doing better than she had before. To facilitate Myrtle’s training in oral sex, Patrick had made her shave his genitals with her Lady Electric, This intimate task was intended to familiarize her with his package, and give it a better presentation when she sucked him.

The thing was going to happen, and Patrick reveled in the way the woman was sucking him and truly loving it. If by some chance he should visit Jefferson City in the future, Myrtle would indeed be worth looking up.

She was a bit old perhaps, but youthful about sex. He’d had his penis sucked by nearly every woman he had dated since high school and that was a sizable number. Not that he was even trying hard.

The number was still less than two dozen. And truth be told, he had never really expended much effort on attracting women. Winning women’s hearts had always been a cinch for Patrick Accuardi.

Women fell hard and fast.

They never grasped the slow developing romance, once the deed was done. Worse, they had often had rigorously vanilla attitudes about sex, the majority preferring not to indulge orally either way, and with prudish attitudes about BDSM relationships. The idea of taking a whip to a lover’s behind appalled them. Myrtle Holland, on the other hand, was probably the best Patrick had ever had in that regard, telling him frankly that she wanted to be his “love slave,” a totally eager receptacle for his cum.

It was hard to fault such an outlook, as it appealed to the dominant side of Patrick’s personality.

It would be much better, Patrick often thought, to find a woman who wasn’t afraid to assume the initiative, rather than go through the game of bait and switch. Deep down, he wanted a woman who would take him “in hand,” as the Victorian novel expression went. Someone who was strict but loving. In the center of his being, Patrick knew this was what he needed to live a first class domestic life.

There were many times, when Patrick masturbated, that he entertained classic feminine dominant fantasies. Alas, a woman forceful enough to make him play the submissive in a relationship was nowhere to be found. Sadly, women were mostly all of a type among his contemporaries.

At first, women acted like a one-person cult, seeking to love-bomb a man into an emotional commitment. Once that was behind them, it was only later, in slow stages, that the true nature of the individual female revealed itself.

When Patrick became disenchanted with a female’s true nature, disengaging had always been fraught with peril. A woman like Myrtle, however, might possibly be kept at bay, on account of the geographical separation and the difference in age. In the meantime, Myrtle’s bobbing head redoubled its effort, sensing that Patrick’s orgasm was near.

Her silky mouth, with full, red lips, slid smoothly along the trunk of his rod, reaching nearly to the base. The shine of her saliva on his long, thick rod reflected in the light of the bedside lamp. Here it came—Myrtle had done it!

The edge of the cliff was reached, causing Patrick to spasm, and, thus triggered, his glands contracted, spurting a burst of cum in Myrtle’s mouth, where it lingered muskily upon her tongue before she sent it down.

More spurts followed in rapid succession.

Patrick exhaled sharply but, always in control, he thrust little. Myrtle squealed with delight, gulping and swallowing his output with unabashed enthusiasm.

“EeeaaAAAH!” Patrick suddenly cried, an exclamation not quite loud enough to be heard by cabins adjacent to the one Myrtle rented on Woahinke Lake.

“Um hum...” Myrtle hadn’t said anything substantially different since her mouth first attached itself to Patrick’s rod. She did not vary it now, except to increase the volume and stretch out the duration of her um hummings.

“UM HUMM… UM HUMMMM… “

Patrick’s juice kept exiting from his rod burst by burst, with Myrtle joyously consuming every drop. When at last there was no more, or so it seemed, Myrtle applied just her lips to the blunt head, going at it like his organ was a wax paper straw and his semen the whipped cream residue at the bottom of an old-fashioned malted shake.

In the human male, where the penis joins the torso, the urethra dips, much like the trap under a kitchen sink. It was here that Patrick’s remaining ejaculate pooled, awaiting the moment when the penis slowly shrinks within the confines of the female vagina.

Or anywhere else it happens to be.

As the penis shrinks, the urethra straightens and the cul-de-sac empties into the urethra proper—intended by nature to be a last-second rush of the most motile sperm in a man’s inventory. It is from such gametes offspring arise.

Endorphins flood the male brain, producing a lassitude approaching hallucination. On this occasion, the laggard contestants in the spermatic stampede were vacuumed up swiftly by Myrtle, in a splendid final love service.

Patrick’s body rigor mortised in its crouched posture, his last resistant jism torn free from its internal moorings, to be promptly swallowed, perishing in the acid oblivion of Myrtle’s belly. As the final filaments were thus liquidated, Patrick howled like his rod was caught in the jaws of a steel trap.

***

At that same exact moment, in a rented two-story A-frame across the body of water known as Woahinke Lake, Michaelene Austin was upbraiding her husband Todd, just before the couple went to bed. Todd was a short, handsome man with dark brown hair and large, soft brown eyes.

Michaelene was a stunning blond, with a superb figure and startling cerulean blue eyes.

“You’re letting your housework slide all too often,” she said, sharply. “Especially the dishes, Todd. When I came home from work, you’d been hanging around for hours and the dishes still sat in the sink, unwashed. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I got distracted,” Todd said in a sulking tone. “It won’t happen again.”

“What were you doing? Looking at on line porn?”

As this question was spot on, Todd responded testily. “So what if I was?”

An infuriated Michaelene took two steps forward and slapped Todd’s face twice, first one way and then the other, leaving marks upon both cheeks.

“How dare you! You know I absolutely abhor your porn habit. Damn you! Damn you!”

For all Todd’s brilliance in the field of marine biology, he was a basically weak and irresolute man—sexually and emotionally. He began to sniffle as a result of being slapped by his Wife. This was too much for Michaelene.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she snapped. “If you’re going to bawl like a baby, I’ll give you something to bawl about. Go into the bedroom and take off your clothes. Lie down on the bed and wait for me.”

“Oh no, please Michaelene, not that! I’m sorry! I’ll be good! It won’t happen again, I swear.”

Todd gave her a stricken look.

Michaelene would have none of it.

She grabbed her husband by the scruff of his neck and pushed him roughly towards the bedroom. She was over an inch taller than her spouse.

“I’m going to break that vile habit, buster,” Michaelene vowed, “if I have to whip your ass every day. Now get into the bedroom!”

With a mien of self-pity mixed with resignation, Todd complied. Bare ass whippings at the hands of Michaelene were not overly frequent for a Wife-led marriage, but they did occur around once per month.

Todd sometimes suspected that they coincided with the times when his Wife was three or four days away from her monthly menarche. A glance at the calendar on his way to the bedroom confirmed that Michaelene’s period was about three days hence.

As soon as he was naked, Todd stretched out in a spread eagle position, awaiting his punishment.

The bed Todd spread upon had long been owned by his Wife. It was an antique iron four-poster she picked up at an estate sale. A slick paint job in an earthy beige and a rack of heavy oaken slats said the bed was not merely stylish in a vintage sort of way, but sturdy as a Humvee.

The queen-sized mattress spread with silk sheets was an ultra-deluxe model with super foam padding, and sat atop a box springs that even during athletic sex stayed quiet as a mouse. Michaelene joined Todd in the bedroom after a few minutes with her birch switch in hand, wearing only a white lace bra and panties. On her feet were the high-heeled white pumps she wore when she disciplined Todd physically.

Todd knew only too well what was coming. Michaelene put the switch down and drew a set of velcro straps from the top drawer of the nightstand beside the bed.

“Give me your wrists, Todd,” Michaelene ordered. He obeyed unresistingly. In seconds, his wrists were bound to the iron rails of the headboard and after that, his ankles to the rails of the footboard. Michaelene tested the four straps, making certain they were tight enough to keep Todd’s butt from avoiding the switch.

“You’re getting thirty strokes, Todd,” Michaelene said, setting her jaw. She picked up the switch.

“Oh please no! Please!” Todd whined. “Not so many.” Thirty was the maximum she ever gave him with her birch. When she used her leather strap, however, Michaelene was known to give Todd upwards of fifty blows.

“Sorry, but you are only getting what you deserve,” she said, in a calm, even voice. With that, Michaelene sent the switch whistling in the air, first one way, then the other.

Sssswish! Sssswish! It made an ominous hiss.

Enamored of her three birch switches, Michaelene was particularly fond of this piece. Three feet long, it featured a rubber handle, was highly flexible, and lightweight. Best of all, it boasted a wicked power that left a perfect red welt. A good reminder for her meek sub-hubby.

Usually, it took days for the marks on Todd’s fanny to fade, which gave Michaelene not the slightest pause. Long ago, her husband had become damaged goods in her eyes. And tonight, she was determined to let her disappointment show, plying the switch with more than customary vigor. Todd’s resulting screams rent their A-frame, and could be heard from the outside, had anyone been listening.

No one was listening.

Swish—Ka-rack!

Todd screamed.

Swish—Ka-rack!

Todd screamed again.

When she was done, Michaelene left the weeping Todd pinioned to the bed and donned her newest strap-on, a dildo modeled after an old time guitarist’s plaster-casted penis. Kneeling behind her husband on the bed, Michaelene lubed the dong before sending it up into his rectum.

“I’m going to make you my bitch, Toddy,” Michaelene said, ever so sweetly. “It’ll help dry your tears. Because for now, you’re forgiven.”

As she pressed the daunting instrument inward, Todd’s sobs shifted by degrees into pleased, audible squeals. Once Michaelene was sure Todd was in a docile state, she pulled out, removing her dildo harness and lingerie. After puffing on her cannabis pen, she made Todd kneel before her in her special chair, to thank her for his whipping.

Once that was accomplished, Michaelene let him suckle her nipples, first one and then the other, before settling back for a long, luxurious round of cunnilingus from her dutiful sub hubby.

“Your tongue, Toddy,” Michaelene said. “Hurry.”

***