Angela: The Lettered Jacket Ch. 02

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Big Tits

Over time Angela was starting to get a vague understanding of Tim’s breaking and training her. On the rack, he was subjecting her to the most arduous sexual activity possible, the scope and range of methods barely describable in mere words. The second part was his taking her to biker bars and having her perform a myriad of sexual favors to the patrons present, often culminating with her on the pool table. The third was her being let off at night in the meanest sections of the city, The Lettered Jacket advertising her looseness to total strangers under the anonymity of night. For all three of the above, Tim was unrelenting in that Angela must always keep her big, blue eyes open, no matter what was happening to and with her.

The fourth and most difficult part of Tim’s breaking and training Angela was his enrolling her into a support group. Here Tim had opted for Monday evenings. That is when weekend losers would appear to talk about their failures, usually in getting a date or getting laid. In addition, the support group had its large share of whiny couples, in feeble voices talking at length about an impotent husband or a frigid wife, all seeking support in their peer support group.

For Angela, Tim’s enrolling her in that support group was by far the most humiliating part of their relationship. Being tied to the rack and subjected to a huge variety of sexual objects, positions, and torments, being used at will out in the open and in the dark alleys of the city was bad enough. But never as humiliating as being forced to openly talk about it with total strangers, sitting around in a room, all eyes upon her, listening as she swallowed hard and tried to talk about her experiences in a calm and poised manner.

The support group would go around the room, talking about their usually failed sexual lives. When it was Angela’s turn, she would leave out a good ninety-eight percent of what she had done the past weekend. For example, instead of talking about The Lettered Jacket advertising her as a walking billboard, she would merely talk about “an unsatisfying experience last night” or something just as innocuous. Of course, her leaving out the vast majority of her experiences still left her leagues ahead of all the others!

In time, she developed a reputation among the support group as, simply out, “a woman of experience”. A middle-aged wife approached her discretely one evening after the Monday night meeting. “My husband cannot seem to get it up. Maybe you can help?”

A younger executive quietly talked to her once when they crossed paths going to the restroom, “My wife is not interested in sex. Maybe… would you consider perhaps if you want one day if you are not busy and it would not bother you maybe perhaps we can get together one afternoon that is of course if it is OK with you blah, blah, blah.”

The proverbial loser moaned about not having gotten laid in months, would she do him a favor one etiler escort of these days maybe quickly right now in the parking lot in your car your hand can just touch me just a bit just so that I can feel a woman’s touch?

At first, Angela was reticent. One weekend as Tim was tying her down to the rack and they were talking, she casually mentioned this to him. Well, to be honest, it was not really casually mentioning it. She had been mulling it over in her mind for weeks, whether or not she should tell Tim, much less if she would even do the favor to one of another in her support group.

Tim listened carefully. As Angela spread her legs wide to be tied to the harness, she told him all the questions she had been asked. He continued to listen, asking a question here and there as he tied her wrists to the rack above. She was still talking comfortably until he clamped her nipples. She winced and lost her train of thought. As Tim started to torment her breasts and nipples, he forced her to continue talking, more and more, as she cried, desperately attempting to keep the train of thought coherent and her pretty eyes wide open.

The multiple vibrators set Angela wild with desire. Tim denied her an orgasm that evening, instead insisting on Angela telling him more, and especially what she was planning to do with each one in her support group who had asked for a favor. In the end, he ordered her, “Since I am at home during the week, you WILL do it and report to me every weekend.”

Angela thanked him profusely, tied down as she was on the rack, and with that, Tim denied her the massive orgasm she was so desperate to give as he tormented her for hours on end, letting up the pressure at times only to let her pee and drink ice tea.

The following Monday night Angela started on her new adventure right after the support group, having selected the biggest loser of them all in the group to give him an oral sex feast in the back seat of his car right in the parking lot. He was, by all accounts ugly and goofy, but endowed with a marvelous cock and the sweetest cum she had ever tasted. They made a promise to repeat it after every meeting, a promise she really had absolutely no intention of keeping.

The younger executive got his load off on Tuesday afternoon at a cheap motel: Angela decided to go straight anal with him from the outset, just to make sure that any complaints he had about the frigidity of his wife would be unequivocally confirmed. Angela was now certain that she owned him and that she would be able to use him at will; possibly every Tuesday afternoon?

For the middle-aged housewife who had discretely mentioned her husband’s impotence, Angela sweetly suggested they get together at their home Wednesday evenings for dinner. While the wife toiled away in the kitchen preparing the meal, Angela started making passes at him. Once he got over his shock, the blood flowed from the head escorts atop his shoulders to the head between his legs, and he was toast after that. A deft hand job soon arose his shriveled little penis to an insignificant erection, and quickly he was splashing the plush carpet with his long-restrained orgasm. She smiled nicely as he blushed and tucked it back into his trousers.

Dinner proceeded nicely, the man blushing a lot and mumbling stupidities, while his plump wife smiled at Angela, thanking her without saying anything, just with her eyes. Angela knew that it would be a matter of two or three more Wednesday’s before the wife too would be devoured. Then she would be able to use Wednesday evenings for a nutritional dinner and a lovely three-some as dessert.

That left Thursday’s free, which Tim ordered Angela to keep open to serve any other support group member as needed. She had to be flexible, Tim ordered her, to be a sexual slave for anyone else.

A few weeks later, the support group moderator quit, citing “the strange and incomprehensible development in the support group’s attitudes.” (Fancy way of saying that he had completely lost control of the group.) Angela took over as moderator. The reputation grew and soon she had to move into a much larger facility.

Monday nights changed for all the members of the support group. They were more open, more daring in their comments, sharing their experiences and failures, each one being so frank and feeling so totally comfortable that Angela started to sense that the therapy was being very beneficial to all. She would fill in with narrations her adventures over time. She talked about the regular at the biker bar who had a fetish about shooting his load into her ear, directly up her nostrils, and at times directly into her huge blue eyes, which Tim had ordered she always keep open, making them sting so bad that even a bottle-full of eye drops did not soothe. She told them about being ravaged by many men at the same time, all holes filled, sometimes even two cocks in one hole to accommodate them all at once. She told them about the two women, each with a strap-on, who would make weekly bets as to who could make her climax faster. She showed them her pierced nipples and clit and how Tim had ordered the latter be done without even a hint of local anesthesia.

She talked about the coarse men at the bar, whose beefy hands would not simply stop at fingering her but rather continued all the way in, fisting her as if digging for potatoes, laughing and drinking all the time. One of the women in the back asked if Angela had some pictures to share. Angela shot back, “That, dear friend, I leave to you imagination. But if you really want to know, why don’t you and your husband head there one evening. You may find yourself quite the attraction of the night!” The support group laughed. Angela knew she had scored a point. And that the lovely lady would bagcilar escort soon be scored upon as well!

The support group kept growing, the admission fees rising accordingly, and her website now getting so many hits that advertisers were paying a premium to be listed.

Months later, on a Monday evening regular meeting, she brought The Lettered Jacket. It was a normal jacket, of a coarse and sturdy fabric, covering her torso and arms, from her shoulders all the way just past her waist, and with snaps that were almost impossible to unlatch unless one really understood how they worked.

Only that The Lettered Jacket had an interesting feature. Emblazoned boldly across the back, in bright optic yellow letters that glowed in the dark, were the words in large block letters, ‘RAPE ME “.

She told the group about it, how she had been forced to wear it repeatedly for even minor obedience infractions. She told them, as they sat in rapt attention, her experiences with it, and how upon returning home at dawn, she was made to wash it by hand, iron it, mend any tears, and hang it prominently on display in her room as a reminder “of just one of the many things that can and do happen when a lovely sub disobeys”.

They sat motionless, their eyes as open as their mouths. Everyone was given a number. She had a lottery and the winner, she said, would get The Lettered Jacket and would be set loose that very same evening.

“Does it have to be a woman?” the loser asked.

Angela laughed, “No, silly! Man or woman can be advertised in The Lettered Jacket!”

“But,” the loser continued, “what if the winner is a man and well you know what I mean another man takes him up on The Lettered Jacket?”

“Take your chances. Is everyone in the game or not? I want to see a show of hands. Whoever is not, get out now and never come back and never call me again.”

One by one, hands started going up. The middle-aged housewife was the first; the younger executive nervously put his hand up as well, simply out of terror of losing Angela’s Tuesday favors. Soon, all hands were up. Angela smiled, pleased with her self. She could tell Tim this coming weekend that she was now fully broken in and trained, that she ran her own show now, that she was going to make fame and a large fortune.

She smiled broadly, reached into the bowl, and pulled out the winning number.

Everyone was on pins and needles, wondering who the winner was.

Each person looked at his or her ticket.

No one said a word.

Angela scanned the support group.

Perhaps she had made a mistake?

No, no way it could be a mistake. All the tickets had a corresponding number in the bowl. There could be NO mistake.

She was sure of that.

Suddenly it dawned on her.

Sheepishly, she reached into her purse.

SHE had the winning number!

A storm of applause broke across the room. Men and women approached her to kiss her, thank her, and wish her well!

Among the laughter and congratulations, a motion was made and seconded,

“RESOLVED, that The Letter Jacket be raffled EVERY Monday.”

It passed unanimously!

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32