pissie's pathetic path

"pissie’s pathetic path"

by c.w. cobblestone

 

I knelt at the foot of the bed, eyes lowered, haunted by the rhythmic sounds: Flesh slapping flesh. Headboard slamming wall. Her squeals. His grunts. My heart.

 

My poor kneecaps hurt. So did my poor little dick. Every time I worked up the courage to sneak an unauthorized peek at the bedsheet ballet playing out by candlelight, I paid for my arousal when the nasty spikes of my chastity device dug into my tender weenie-flesh.

 

The pain didn’t stop there. My arms and shoulders ached from holding out the set of towels, but that’s how my wife and her lover usually want me positioned: On my knees in my maid’s outfit, eyes cast downward, offering their neatly-folded towels like some kind of submissive sissy statue while they leisurely enjoy each other’s bodies. Those are their wishes, so I bite my lip and deal with the throbbing agony. When you’ve been a slave as long as I have, you get used to endless hours of waiting … and waiting … and being ignored.

 

Even as I avert my eyes, my other senses suck up every sound, scent and vibe; it mixes and reverberates around the room, bouncing off the walls, back and forth, hammering my skull. As I squirm and sweat, knees on fire, struggling to hold back tears, they could give less than a shit. As far as they’re concerned, I’m not even in the room. I’m a piece of furniture; an accessory to enhance their experience.

 

How many times have I knelt on this carpet holding these damned towels, sneaking peeks at his ass as it taunts me with its dance, bouncing, poking, swiveling and bopping in and out of my beloved Lisa? How many times? It’s a ritual, with ebbs and flows; it’s slow, fast, hard, soft, up, down, sideways. Finally, the big moment — his butt-cheeks tense; her gasps become louder. The screams … the whimpers … the collapse … and then the giggles, the goddamn giggles, which cut the worst. They titter together, foreheads touching, lost in their special little world while I kneel there like a feminized idiot presenting their soon-to-be cum towels.

 

I snapped out of my pity party daydream when Mistress waved her hand in my direction, and I passed her a towel. As I turned to James, he said, “no, a little tongue first, pissie.”

 

“Yes, sir, thank you sir.” I set his towel on the dresser, slinked onto the bed and settled between his legs. I lowered my head to his crotch and gently licked up their sticky residue as if on autopilot, trying to block out the sharp scent of their combined sweat. I always feel a rush of jealousy when I lick up their sex mess. It’s no fair; he gets to cum in my wife whenever he wants, while I’m lucky if I get to fuck my love doll LuLu three times a year.

 

As I slurped my master’s gooey crotch, a pubic hair got caught in my throat, but I didn’t dare stop and pull it out. I knew from experience that would earn me a bitch-slap, or worse. Luckily, over the years I’ve developed techniques that make my slave life easier, and I’ve figured out a pretty good system where I can manipulate my throat muscles and expel the offending short-n-curly while continuing my cleanup duties without missing a lick.

 

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lisa wipe her crotch with the towel and toss it on the floor. I wanted to cry; that meant I wouldn’t be licking my wife’s pussy clean tonight. Neither of them noticed my dismay. They clasped hands and chatted about possible vacation spots, oblivious to me as I toiled diligently below them lapping up their sex mess.

 

I was licking Master’s balls when he suddenly ripped a loud fart, which made me jump. My wife chuckled and watched me as I continued submissively tonguing her boyfriend’s genitals. I could feel her eyes on me, and it made me uncomfortable.

 

“He’s so loyal,” she said. James nodded and tapped me on the head.

 

“That’s enough,” he said. “Hand me the towel.” I slid off the bed and retrieved it from the dresser. He snatched the towel from me, wiped his crotch and threw it at my face, making my wife giggle. I caught it as it slid down my apron.

 

“Turn the light out, pissie,” he said.

 

I curtsied. “Yes, sir, thank you sir.”

 

As I turned to leave, I stole a quick glance at my wife, and my gut churned. It still killed me to see her snuggled up to him, her head on his chest, radiating the most peaceful, contented smile imaginable.  

 

I picked Lisa’s cum-stained towel off the floor, turned off the light and retreated to my quarters in the laundry room. It had been another long, sad, exhausting day in the life of an exploited, infatuated sissy maid. I fell asleep seconds after I hit my cot.

 

 

****

 

 

Darkness exploded into white-hot pain in my scalp as Master James yanked me awake by my ponytail.

 

“Get up, bitch.” He used my hair like a leash, turning me around and dragging me to the edge of my cot. “Pull down them panties.”

 

I was woozy, still slipping out of dreamland, panic twisting in my stomach. Having been awakened this way many times, I knew better than to keep him waiting, so I wiggled my panties past my spiked chastity cage and assumed the prone position with my ass held high, eyes welling up at what I knew was coming. No sooner had I dropped my panties, Master was behind me, positioning his cock against my asshole.

 

“Lisa says I wore out that pussy, but I still got me a nut left,” he grunted as he spit on his dick and pushed himself in. There was no gentleness; he rammed all the way inside me in one thrust, and with only a dollop of spit as lube, it ripped my insides apart. I screamed until my throat was as raw as my asshole.

 

“Oh, please, Master, please, mercy, Sir, it hurts so bad ….”

 

“Shut up, bitch.” He slapped me hard on the back of the head and plowed into me again and again and again. I sobbed into the pillow as silently as I could, enduring the violation, drowning in pain and shame.

 

I slipped into semi consciousness until I could finally tell he was getting close because he started yanking my ponytail back and forth, and spitting “fucking sissy bitch” through clenched teeth. He tensed up before screaming: “Ungh….unggg….UHHHHH.” Each jet stream spiked my guts. After the spasms subsided, he pulled out with a plop.

 

Without being told, I spun around and licked the slimy mixture of shit, blood and cum from his cock, while at the same time reaching behind me with one hand and plugging my asshole with my fingers. Master James becomes enraged when I leak cum after he fucks me, and with my sphincter muscles destroyed there’s no way I can hold it in without using my fingers as a stopgap. I don’t know why it annoys him so much but after getting the shit beat out of me a few times, I’ve learned not to leak.

 

When he was satisfied his cock was clean, he stepped away. I cowered, not knowing what to expect. Would he want a second round? Was he going to beat me? I hadn’t done anything to deserve punishment, but I often get my ass blistered, or slapped around for no other reason than my wife and her lover enjoy inflicting pain. Sometimes they want to get their frustrations out. Sometimes they do it for laughs. Sometimes they’re just bored.

 

Luckily, Master turned and walked away without a word. Although I was grateful to avoid further abuse, I still felt demoralized as I lay on my cot in the laundry room next to the dryer.

 

After James left the room, I cleaned myself as required, scooping the sticky, disgusting mess from my asshole and licking my fingers clean. It took more than a dozen handfuls to get it all.

 

I tucked a wad of toilet paper in my ass crack so I wouldn’t bleed everywhere and cried myself to sleep with a throbbing behind and a nasty taste in my mouth.

 

 

****

 

 

I felt like shit Saturday morning when the 6 am alarm sounded. Because of James’ unlubricated pummeling, I was up half the night squirming and sobbing from the fire in my ass and the bile in my soul. After taking my hormone pills, changing the bloody toilet paper in my ass and donning my drab gray daily maid’s uniform, I went about my quiet morning chores: polishing, scrubbing floors and ironing. It’s difficult enough walking in my heels, but my ass hurt so badly every step was pure agony. You’d think after so many violations I’d be used to having his huge cock up my ass, but I’m not. It would help if he’d use lube, but he likes it dry, with only a little spit. He says it feels better that way, so I have no choice but to suffer through it.

 

I sucked up the pain and went about my housework. On weekends I don’t start the coffee until 8:30 because they hardly ever wake up before 9:30-10. So, when Lisa sauntered down the stairs at about a quarter after 8, I blanched.

 

I curtseyed as she reached the bottom of the stairway. “I’m so sorry, Mistress, I don’t have coffee ready yet.”

 

“Well, go make some, pissie,” she shot back in her usual snotty tone, adjusting the belt on her robe. “Why the hell isn’t it ready?”

 

“I-I’m so sorry, Mistress, I didn’t expect you to be awake so soon.”

 

“Jen and me have tennis. She’ll be over around 9. Just a continental breakfast this morning, pissie, nothing too heavy before we play. Jen’s eating, too. We’ll eat on the patio, but bring me my coffee first; I’m gonna watch TV. And hurry the fuck up. I should have James kick your ass for not having my goddamn coffee ready.”

 

I gulped and literally shivered at the prospect of being punished by James. “I-I’m so sorry, Mistress, I’ll have a cup ready right away, Mistress.” I curtsied and hopped to it, teetering on my heels into the kitchen. Every movement rubbed my poor ass raw, but the imminent visit by my wife’s sexy, kinky friend helped take my mind off the pain.

 

Lisa, Jen and James are longtime friends with benefits. They have a lot in common in and out of the bedroom, including a fondness for skiing, hiking and abusing me. At one point they even discussed Jen moving in with us, but she decided she wanted to live on her own, although she said the idea sounded “intriguing.” The prospect of Jen moving in titillated and scared the shit out of me.

 

I had the coffee brewing within seconds and stood by the pot, waiting until the fluid started to drip. I pulled the pot out long enough to catch a cupful in Lisa’s favorite mug, and then rushed to the living room to serve it to her.

 

She didn’t look up from the television as I set the cup onto the coffee table in front of her.

 

“Do you need anything else before I start making breakfast, Mistress?”

 

Lisa shook her head but kept watching TV. I curtseyed and returned to the kitchen. She didn’t seem angry, and I felt fairly confident that her threat to have James beat me was just a case of my wife’s usual morning bitchiness. Not that it didn’t stay in the back of my mind. I’m used to that, though; when you’re a sissy slave, you live in constant fear, knowing a terrible ass-whipping could rain down at any moment, on the flimsiest pretense or slightest provocation.

 

Jen arrived just after 9. Lisa met her at the door and they strolled onto the patio as I put the final touches on an array of neatly-arranged sliced fruits, bagels, juices and croissants.

 

I curtseyed as they approached. Jen smiled. “Good morning, pissie. How’s my favorite little faggot?”

 

“I’m well, ma’am, thank you for asking. Would you like some coffee?”

 

Jen said “sure,” and I poured her a cup. She chuckled as I wobbled across the patio to set the pot on its base.

 

“Dang, pissie, you’re limping pretty bad, there,” she said, winking at my wife. “Looks like somebody got cornholed.”

 

Lisa smirked. “Yeah, James and me went at it three times last night and the horny bastard wakes up at 2 in the morning wanting more. I told him I couldn’t handle another one. So pissie took care of him — didn’t you pissie?”

 

“Yes, Mistress.” I lowered my eyes.

 

My wife nibbled a croissant. “James is a damn beast. I’m glad we got pissie around because there is no way that thing is going up my ass. Especially with no lube. That shit must hurt.”

 

Jen cocked her head. “Is it true, pissie? Does your master’s big cock hurt when he shoves it up your little sissy butthole with no lube? Be honest, now, faggot.”

 

“Y-yes, Ma’am, it hurts real bad.”

 

“I bet it does.” Jen chuckled.

 

Lisa’s lip curled. “I could hear the little sissy screaming last night: ‘Oh, please, Master, please, it hurts, it hurts.’ James slapped the shit out of him; Bam! Didn’t he?”

 

“Yes, Ma’am.”

 

“Aw, poor pissie,” Jen teased. “It’s no fun getting raped, is it?”

 

My eyelids fluttered. “Um, Miss Jen, I just want to please my master and mistress, so I’m grateful for whatever they want to do to me, if it makes them happy.”

 

Jen smirked. “But that’s no fair — with the ‘me too’ movement, you shouldn’t have to put up with it.”

 

“The ‘me too’ movement doesn’t apply to sissies,” Lisa said, dipping her finger into her orange juice and licking it clean. “That’s because little sissies like being used and abused and raped. Isn’t that right, pissie? You like being raped, don’t you?”

 

I curtseyed. “Yes, Mistress.”

 

“Awww, poor widdle pissie,” Jen sang. “I guess they don’t have rape counselors for sissies, do they?”

 

My voice cracked. “N-no, ma’am.”

 

My wife leaned back and took a satisfied sip. “Pissie lives to serve. What would the bitch need a counselor for? He’s living the American sissy dream, aren’t you, pissie?”

 

I curtseyed again. “Yes, Mistress, thank you.”

 

“And if you like getting raped, it’s not really rape is it?”

 

“No, Mistress, I like it when Master uses me because it pleases him.”

 

My wife scoffed. She knew I was lying.

 

Jen stared at me for a second. “So, tell me, pissie: Where do you stand on the issue of transgenders in bathrooms?”

 

My wife and her friend cracked up while I stood there with a fake submissive smile plastered on my face.

 

“A sissy isn’t a transgender,” Lisa said. “A transgender is a human being; someone who deserves respect. Sissies don’t get any respect. They’re sissies. Little bitches who need someone to tell them what to do. Am I right, pissie?”

 

“Yes, Mistress.” She was right. We both knew she was right.

 

Jen sneered at me and popped a grape into her mouth. “Sucks to be you, pissie, that’s all I can say. Sucks to be you.”

 

She was right, too. Sucks to be me.

 

Lisa and Jen quickly grew bored with me and changed the subject to their tennis plans. I hadn’t been dismissed, so I stood there at attention like a good maid, hands folded on my apron and eyes lowered.

 

After few minutes passed, James’s bellow from upstairs made me flinch: “Pissie!”

 

I cleared my throat. “Um, Mistress, may I be excused so I can bring Master his coffee?”

 

Lisa took another drink of juice before flicking her manicured nails. “Go.”

 

I curtseyed, scrambled to the kitchen as best I could with my burning behind, and rushed up the stairs, coffee cup in hand.

 

James was propped up on the king-sized bed, lost in his iPhone. I set his coffee on the nightstand, curtsied, and then waited, feeling two inches tall standing before the man who had so brutally sodomized me only hours earlier. He ignored me for a few minutes before setting his phone down and taking a sip of coffee.

 

He yawned. “Big breakfast this morning, pissie; I’m kinda hungry.”

 

I curtsied. “Yes, sir. Would you like anything in particular, sir?”

 

“You know what I like; surprise me. Big breakfast.” He yawned again and scratched his balls. “Lisa leave yet?”

 

“No, sir. She’s downstairs on the patio with Miss Jennifer.”

 

His face brightened. “Oh, Jen’s here? Good. I’ll take my food out there then, pissie.”

 

“Yes, sir, I’ll have it ready in a jiffy, sir.” I curtsied and limped back downstairs. I was glad he didn’t mention raping me the night before, but it made me feel even lower that he didn’t think it important enough to bring up.

 

Before starting breakfast, I checked to see if the ladies needed anything. I refilled their juices and then set to fixing my master’s hearty meal of bacon, eggs, French toast, and hash browns. While I cooked, I heard James amble down the stairs and slide open the rear patio door. Their lilting voices drifted into the kitchen as I whipped up a masterpiece for Master. I felt left out and unappreciated, slaving over a hot stove while they sat on their asses and chatted, but I worked through the self-pity and prepared my rapist’s breakfast like a good little bitch.

 

When the cooking was done, I arranged a large platter that looked like something out of a Bob Evans commercial, with every food item perfectly placed, and carried it out to the patio. My wife, her lover and her friend were engaged in a conversation about a movie. I couldn’t remember the last time I watched a movie.

 

I set the platter down and began doling out portions onto James’s plate while Jen smirked at me and chuckled.

 

“Poor pissie’s limping around like crazy,” she said. “Lisa tells me you guys had some fun last night. You’re not turning gay on me, are you, big boy?”

 

James threw his head back and guffawed. “No, dumb-ass, Lisa said I wore her out, and you weren’t around to take care of me. So, I had to settle for a little sissy booty-hole. It’s better than nothing with the lights out.”

 

Jen licked her lips. “Well, stud, you should’ve called me. You got my number.”

 

My wife touched her friend’s shoulder. “Maybe tonight. If I beat you three out of five, you go down on me first.”

 

“Sounds like a plan, bitch,” Jen jibed.

 

“How about you both go down on me first, no matter who wins?” James said.

 

I stood at “sissy attention” while the three of them flirted and James leisurely ate his breakfast, enjoying the fawning devotion of two beautiful women, one of whom was my beloved wife. I oozed resentment. Why wouldn’t I? This man stole my wife, my manhood, my bedroom, my dignity. He lives like a king in my own house, while I kiss his ass and get the shit slapped out of me for my trouble. Sigh. The life of a sissy.

 

I stood there for 20 minutes or so, refilling drinks and, once Master was finished eating, removing the dishes from the table. Eventually, my wife and her friend took off for their tennis outing, leaving me alone with the bully who makes my life miserable.

 

I would have prayed for an eventless Saturday afternoon but I knew better.

 

 

****

 

I stripped the sheets from Mistress and Master’s bed. It’s a pain to have to change the sheets as often as I do, but that’s what they want. I usually have to change them several times a day, depending how many times they fuck. Lisa is a fanatic about having clean sheets and a perfectly-made bed. She’s a fanatic about lots of things like that. Lucky me.

 

When the dirty bedsheets were gathered, I picked up their clothes: panties, bra, jeans and blouse; boxers, slacks, socks and shirt. As I dropped the items into the clothesbasket, I lingered on my mistress’s underthings, causing me incredible pain as my little worm stirred and pressed against the spikes in my cage.

 

I carried the heaping basket down the stairs, noticing my master lounging on the couch. Saturday was college football day, and though it was still a good half hour before any of the games kicked off, he was absorbed in the pregame shows.

 

As I passed James in the living room, he stopped me. “What are you doing?” It was a dumb question — since I was holding the dirty clothesbasket, I was obviously doing laundry — but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

 

I cleared my throat. “Um, I’m just getting ready to do the laundry, and I still have to put new sheets on your bed, sir.”

 

“That shit can wait. Come get on these feet.”

 

“Yes, sir.” I dipped a curtsey while still holding the clothesbasket and scurried away to the laundry room, which doubles as my sleeping quarters. The small room also serves as the storage area for household items including cleaning materials and their foot kit, which consists of lotions, pumice stones and various files. I set the clothesbasket onto the floor, scooped up the foot kit and hurried back to my reclining master.

 

As I set the kit onto the carpet, James drawled, “grab me a beer before you get started, pissie.”

 

I curtsied. “Yes, sir.” I rushed to carry out my duty, sank to my knees in front of the sofa, and began my humble work. It wasn’t yet noon, which seemed to me a little early to be sucking down a beer, but there was no way in hell I was going to lecture him about his drinking.

 

I don’t know how long James’s foot massage lasted, but it must’ve been at least two-and-a-half hours, interrupted only by my fetching him fresh beers. When you’re down there in such a position for so long, you fall into a submissive trance, where every fiber of your being is focused on making your mistress or master feel good.

 

Every now and then I’d peek up at his smug face as he kicked back cradling his bottle of beer. The games had started and he flipped through the channels, watching a few plays before jumping to another game. As usual, it was if I wasn’t even there.

 

His hand drifted to his crotch and an icy wave of fear fluttered through me. All I could think of was “please don’t let him be horny.” My ass was still bleeding and I couldn’t take another pounding — although I knew if he wanted it, I’d have to endure it.

 

For a fleeting moment, I hoped maybe he would want to save himself for what was sure to be a threesome with Lisa and Jen later on, but I knew better. James doesn’t save himself for anything; the man can cum seven times a day. I’ve never seen anything like it. With his huge dick and balls, and incredible stamina, it’s like he was made for having sex and making women feel good. I guess that’s why he was the one relaxing on the sofa while I toiled at his feet, with my own little shriveled-up penis squished into a spiked chastity cage.

 

“Please don’t let him be horny, please don’t let him be horny.” His fingers started kneading his dick and my heart sank. Fuck. He was getting horny.

 

He drained his bottle and burped. “Pissie, go grab me another beer. Then I’m gonna need some lovin’.”

 

“Yes, sir.” I rushed to do his bidding, wondering what he wanted, praying he didn’t want to rape me again.

 

As I handed him his beer, he said: “You’re on booty-duty. Salad needs a’tossin’.”

 

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.” I heaved a sigh of relief — and then immediately felt pathetic for being happy he “only” wanted me to lick his ass.

 

He shifted on the couch; I knelt and buried my face in his ass and began my lowly task. Both he and Lisa like me to start their rim jobs lightly, building up to a firm, respectful, steady tongue swabbing.

 

I was down there at least an hour while he kicked back watching his game. I mumbled my thanks into his bunghole each time he farted in my mouth.

 

The front door rattled, and my heart jumped. Lisa and Jen were back.

 

They giggled when they walked into the living room.

 

Lisa clucked her tongue. “Jeez, James, is there ever a time you don’t have that sissy’s nose in your ass?” Then she told her friend: “I swear to God, every time I turn around this pervert’s got the sissy tossing his salad.”

 

My master reached around and patted my head. “What can I say? It does wonders for the chakra. And it’s good luck; USC’s kicking ass.”

 

They all laughed while I kept licking. Mistress leaned forward and kissed Master. Then Jen gave him a lingering kiss. The spikes cut into my dick as I became aroused thinking about the budding threesome.

 

Lisa excused herself and went upstairs. James clinched up his butt cheeks on my nose. “That’s enough, sissy. Go fix something for lunch. What are you in the mood for, Jen?”

 

Jen smirked at me as I lifted my face from James’s ass and stood before her, awaiting her lunch order.

 

“I don’t know; nothing fancy. Hamburgers are fine. But do me a favor: Wash the ass off your face first before you start making my food, okay? I don’t want my lunch to smell like ass.”

 

I curtsied. “Yes, ma’am.”

 

My wife’s irritated voice from upstairs startled me: “Pissie, get your ass up here, now!”

 

Jen chuckled. “Uh oh. Poor pissie. Sounds like Mistress is pissed.”

 

I ran as fast as I could up the stairs. As soon as I entered the bedroom, I knew the problem: I hadn’t had time to put the new sheets on the bed. James had made me rub his feet and lick his ass the entire time they’d been playing tennis.

 

Lisa pointed at the bed. “What the fuck is this?”

 

I bowed my head. “I’m so sorry, Mistress, I didn’t get the chance.”

 

She stepped forward and slapped the shit out of me. “Didn’t get the chance, my ass. That’s another month.” She slapped me again.

 

“Thank you, Mistress.” I was crestfallen. I had only 9 days until my next scheduled release after four months in chastity, and now she’d just tacked on another month for something that wasn’t my fault.

 

That’s another thing you have to get used to when you’re a sissy cuckold: life is always so damn unfair.

 

“Get the bed later,” she said. “Start on lunch now.”

 

“Um, Mistress? Miss Jen and Master both said they want hamburgers; is that okay or do you want me to make something else for you?”

 

“That’s fine,” she said over her shoulder. I followed her down the stairs and into the living room, where James and Jen sat talking.

 

Lisa plopped down on the couch between them.

 

“What did the sissy do now?” Jen asked.

 

“The damn bed ain’t made. A bare mattress. I added a month to his chastity.”

 

James chuckled. “Well, now, that might be a little bit my fault. I did keep the poor little sissy kind of busy.”

 

Lisa hit his arm. “Damn it, asshole, you’re always taking up pissie’s time with his tongue in your ass, or rubbing your damn feet. The bitch has housework to do.”

 

Jen smiled at me. “Well, pissie, looks like you got a stay of execution on that extra month. You may be allowed to yank on that little wee-wee after all.”

 

“Fuck that,” my wife sneered. “The faggot could’ve put the sheets on before he came down here and had this horny bastard molest him. And besides, I’m just a bitch. The month stands.”

 

I gulped but managed to curtsey and pipe, “t-thank you, Mistress.”

 

Jen giggled. “Damn, girl, you are a bitch.”

 

“Yeah, bitch? What are you gonna do about it?” my wife teased.

 

Then she turned to me. “What the fuck are you standing there for, sissy? Didn’t I tell you to start making lunch?”

 

“Yes, Mistress, right away, Mistress.” I rushed off, my ass still sore with every step from the previous night’s sexual assault, although my pride hurt worse.

 

I whipped up the burgers in no time and returned to the living room to see where my masters wanted lunch to be served. They were engaged in a deep conversation about vibrators and none of them looked up when I curtsied. I stood there for several minutes waiting for a break in their conversation so I could ask my little question.

 

Finally, James drained his beer and handed me the empty bottle. “Since you’re standing there, pissie, I take it lunch is ready.”

 

“Yes, sir, would you care for it in here or on the patio?”

 

James looked at both women, who shrugged. “Here is fine,” my wife said, and I curtsied again before scurrying off to fetch their food.

 

During lunch, I stood in my usual spot a few feet behind the table, far enough away so that they didn’t have me breathing down their necks, but close enough to be able to respond to the slightest gesture. I’ve been trained to the point where a simple nod by my wife or her lover is enough to spur me into action. There are several kinds of nods. A nod toward the coffee cup means, obviously, more coffee. A nod and a stretch of a leg means drop to my knees and kiss the extended foot. Other nods mean “we’re done eating; clear the table.” Don’t ask me exactly how I know which nods are for what, since they’re not always consistent. But I’ve learned to anticipate their needs or pay the price.

 

After they ate the entrée, I served coffee and cake. James looked at me as I poured his coffee. “I think I want my toes sucked, pissie.”

 

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” I replied. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jen smirking at how pathetic I was for thanking my wife’s lover for the privilege of sucking his toes.

 

I slid under the table, moving on submissive autopilot: Removing his socks and sucking toes as they carried on a conversation far above me. I twisted my head so I had a view of my wife’s feet. She wore tennis shoes and girly pink ankle socks. In the moment, it was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen, although I was probably trying to distract myself from my disgusting task. James kept wiggling his toes in my mouth as I slavishly carried out what was a recurring treat for them. They call it “dessert service,” and it’s either heaven or hell for me, depending on whether Lisa or James gives the order.

 

I’d been down there about 20 minutes when I heard my wife say: “Well, guys, why don’t we take this party upstairs?”

 

With that, James pulled his big toe out of my mouth, planted his foot on my face, and shoved me away. “Go get the bedroom ready, pissie,” he said.

 

I scooted out from under the table, curtsied to my master in acknowledgment of his order and hopped to it, grabbing a pitcher of ice water and three glasses from the kitchen before dashing up to the bedroom. I placed several candles throughout the room and lit them, along with a stick of my wife’s favorite incense, “Smokey Vanilla.” The soft jazz playlist was activated at low volume, and a variety of sex lotions were  set neatly on the nightstand, along with a folded stack of hand towels. Everything was set.

 

Then I knelt in the corner with my hands clasped behind my back and waited.

 

It wasn’t long before they paraded into the bedroom. Jen noticed me first.

 

“Hey, queer-boy, come get these shoes off,” she said as she plopped onto the bed.

 

I was at her feet within seconds, untying her sneakers and setting them aside neatly on the carpet.

 

“Socks, too, pissie.”

 

I peeled off her socks, folded them respectfully, and placed them inside her shoes. Then, I knelt silently in the corner and bowed my head.

 

Out of the corner of my eye I saw my wife look down at me for a second before turning to her two lovers. “You guys want the faggot to stay?”

 

Jen shook her head. “No, actually, I need my car washed.”

 

I wanted to cry. Just like that, no sex show for the poor little sissy tonight. No creampies.

 

James bounced onto the bed and smirked. “You heard the woman, pissie. When you’re done with Jen’s car, you might as well go ahead and polish up the Harley, too, while you’re at it.”

 

I struggled to my feet and curtsied.

 

“Yes, sir, I’ll polish it up real nice, sir; and I’ll get your car shining up real good, too, Miss Jennifer.”

 

Jen snorted. “Quit brown-nosing, homo, and get the fuck out of here.” They all laughed.

 

As always, I swallowed the insult and executed my ubiquitous curtsey. The last thing I saw before leaving the bedroom was my wife shimmying out of her panties and flinging them over her shoulder onto the floor.

 

Something else to pick up later, I thought as I trudged outside and unfurled the hose. A pissie’s work is never done.