Hello, gang. Hope all is well. It's been ages since I've posted any new stories, but I've been writing lately. I'm working on a cuckold book, but I have other stories which I don't think I've posted anywhere. Here's one, called "Brownie Points."
I kowtow at the foot of the bed, knees scraped from shuffling back and forth across the rough carpet, arms trembling as I do my best to hold the jumbo-sized pitcher of ice water steady. My back, caned only hours earlier, screams with pain. Every muscle feels like mud. But I block it all out. I'm floating. All I see is them, swimming in the silk sheets. I smell them
...feel them. They don't often allow me to watch them make love, and I absorb every molecule.
They're so beautiful together, my wife and her lover, kissing, caressing, pushing, pulling, sucking, humping, fucking, fucking, fucking. I watch his ass bump up and down, side to side, then a hoola-hoop circle, as hairy balls slap velvet thighs, headboard banging against the wall, a jackhammer's cadence: Thwap! Thwap! Thwap! Thwap! And moans; his and hers, masculine and feminine, yin and yang. High-pitched, girly squeals. Angry ****** growls.
The bed stops rocking and he snaps back at me: "Water." It sounds more like "Wrr." I scoot on my knees across the carpet, rubbing my skin even rawer. When I get to their bedside, Master turns his head my way. I lift the pitcher until the straw is close to his mouth, making sure to respectfully avert his gaze. He leans over, takes a long sip, burps slightly, and returns to my beautiful wife, burying his nose in her soft blonde hair. As he nibbles her earlobe, I unobtrusively scoot back to the foot of their bed again.
I'm supposed to have my eyes to the carpet, but I can't help peeking up every now and then. Master pulls out of my wife and rolls over on his back.
"You get on top," he says.
Marsha snaps her fingers in my direction. "Water."
I scurry as fast as I can to her bedside, ignoring the fire in my kneecaps. She snatches the pitcher from me and takes a sip.
"More ice," she says.
"Yes, Mistress." Remaining on my knees, I shuffle out of the bedroom until I'm out of sight; then I rise and trot to the kitchen to refill the pitcher. Before I reenter their bedroom, I set the water on the carpet and rub my raw wounds for a few seconds. Then, with a sigh, I kneel and shuffle back into the bedroom and to the foot of their bed, where I remain still with my head bowed, holding up the pitcher while Marsha rides Jeff's cock.
Most nights while they fuck, I'm required to kneel facing the wall until they need a *****, towel, joint, lighter, lotion, toe-suck, rim job, or whatever. But I earned 10 brownie points this week, just enough to pay for the honor of watching them.
The brownie point system was Marsha's idea. I have to do extra things for them in order to earn the points. What makes it difficult is, points must be earned by doing things above and beyond my normal duties of waiting on them hand and foot, cleaning the house, and serving as their whipping boy. If I scrub the house spotless top to bottom, fall all over myself to please them and, kiss their ass, it won't earn any brownie points — I'm supposed to do all that anyway.
So brownie points don't come every easy. And, making it worse, they're awarded or taken away at the slightest whim. The goal posts always change; a favor that earned a brownie point one week is ignored the following week. Or, if they're in a bad mood, they'll take away brownie points for the slightest infraction.
That's what happened two weeks ago.
I had accumulated 9 brownie points by Friday, and was really busting my ass so I could earn that point and the privilege of watching them make love. I needed to get the Brownie point before the following evening, Saturday night, which is when I gave them my weekly "Brownie Report," which has to be neatly typed and bound in a folder. Unless they're out or busy, at precisely 9 p.m., I'll kneel before them and read my report while they snuggle on the couch or bed. I detail each Brownie point, and what I did to earn it. They don't always want to hear my report, and there have been many times when I've knelt before them and cleared my throat, ready to deliver my carefully-prepared update, only to have one of them wave their hand and say "get out of here." Other times they ignore me, reading or (in his case) playing video games while I read my presentation aloud.
Anyway, two weeks ago, I was racking my brain trying to come up with a way to earn that final Brownie point. Master had been tinkering around in the garage all day with his baby, the cherry red '65 Mustang, which I purchased for him to celebrate his second year as Marsha's boyfriend, and an idea struck me: I would polish all Master's tools to a showroom shine. Every bit of chrome, from the shaft of the screwdrivers to each ratchet head, would sparkle. Handles would be polished until they gleamed. Surely, I figured, that would get me at least one brownie point, maybe more.
I had planned on starting on Master's tools after dinner. I was especially respectful as I served, praying they wouldn't get mad and take away a brownie point. They almost certainly weren't aware that I was up to 9 brownie points for the week; as much as it meant to me, they didn't pay much attention to the ritual, other than awarding points or taking them away.
They seemed to enjoy the casserole I made for dinner, and when they were finished eating, I cleaned up and did the dishes before joining them in the living room. They each had their couch footrests in the "up" position; Master had taken off his shoes and socks but Mistress still wore her knee-high nylons. He was playing one of his shoot-`em-up games on the Xbox, while she surfed the net on her laptop.
I knelt before them, head bowed. Marsha noticed me first.
"Feet," she said. Before I could say "Yes, Mistress," she was typing on her computer.
"Hey, that's no fair," Jeff said as I peeled my wife's stocking off her left foot. "You got the first foot rub last night."
Marsha leaned back and chuckled. "What can I say, baby? I called first dibs. You snooze, you lose."
Jeff smirked at me. "Your ol' lady's a bitch, you know that? Well, hope you don't get too tired, because you got some foot-rubbin' to do when you're done with her."
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir."
I squeezed lotion into my palm and kept my eyes down and my mouth shut. Nothing else was said as I began slavishly rubbing my wife's feet. She kept me at it for a half-hour while she surfed the net. Then, without a chance to give my aching hands a break, I started on Jeff's feet. I worked for a good 45 minutes until he finally dismissed me. I retreated to the kitchen to clean out the refrigerator, a weekly task.
Finally, around midnight, they called for me to turn down their bed. I scuttled through the nightly ritual on autopilot, setting glasses of ice water on each of their nightstands, arranging their slippers just so on their respective sides of the bed, fluffing up their pillows. When their bedroom was presentable, I knelt at the bedside.
They walked into the room holding hands.
"We're getting low on Scotch; you need to go to the ****** store tomorrow and pick up another fifth," Jeff said.
My wife plopped onto the soft bed and glanced at me over her shoulder. "And don't forget to pick up my dresses from the drycleaner."
Master took a ***** of water and snapped off his lamp. "Alright, I'm tired, beat it."
I was glad they were turning in early; it meant I wouldn't have to stay up too late polishing Master's tools.
Still, it took me until 4 in the morning to finish the job. I was proud of how much Master's tools sparkled. The garage looked like an ad in a magazine.
The next morning, Marsha and Jeff slept in late, allowing me to get caught up on my quiet chores. I was scrubbing the floorboards in the kitchen when I heard them making love. I put on their coffee and continued my work, taunted by my wife's screams of passion.
At about 11:30, Jeff's voice made me jump: "Yo, faggot! Coffee."
I scurried up the stairs, carrying their piping hot cups of Joe in each hand. I almost dropped them when I entered the bedroom and saw Marsha sprawled naked on the bed, legs spread eagle. Jeff lay next to her, propped up on a pillow.
I set Marsha's cup on her nightstand first, and then handed Jeff his coffee.
"Thanks, faggot." He took a sip. "After breakfast, I'm gonna work on the car for a while. Make sure all my tools are laid out."
"Yes, sir." I cleared my throat. "Um, sir, I was up late last night polishing all your tools. They look really great, sir; they're really shiny. I hope you like it, sir."
Marsha chuckled and nudged her lover. "Sounds like someone's trying to get brownie points."
Jeff snorted. "I dunno...if my tools look as good as he says they do, that might be worth a couple points." He sneered at me. "What do you think, faggot? You think you've earned a few Brownie points?"
I fell to my knees. "Oh, please, sir, if you think so, sir, I would be so honored --"
He cut me off. "It's not if I think so; do you think you've earned them?"
I didn't know what to say. He may have been just fucking with me, or it may have been a trap. I figured I'd play it safe.
"No, sir, I just want to make you and Mistress Marsha happy, sir, I don't do it for Brownie points...although I don't mind getting them -- that is, if it's okay with you, sir."
Marsha scoffed and shook her head. "Pathetic."
Jeff sipped his coffee and set it on the nightstand. "You did good, faggot. If my tools pass inspection, I'll slide you a couple brownie points. Two."
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir."
Marsha waved her arm toward me. "Bonus," she said. "Hand me my coffee, and then I'm going to give you a treat. Jeff made a mess. My pussy needs cleaning, and I'm going to let you do it. How's that?"
I nearly cried as I blubbered my thanks.
So I was one happy slave as I sucked cum from my wife's pussy, knowing her lover would be pleased when he saw his tools. And I would get to watch them make love.
Every once in a while, even pathetic cuckolds get a happy ending!