Diary posts from pee-pee the hapless cuckold slave

Here are some random excerpts from my 71,000-word living diary of pee-pee, a cuckold slave to his wife/Mistress Anna, her live-in lover Brent, and Anna and Brent's young baby, Brent Junior. I had posted a lot of this to Reddit last year, but not all of it, and I've since removed those posts. I also posted drafts of the first few entries on this site, although I have since rewritten a lot of it. I've also removed all my books from Amazon, including the pee-pee book, for a reason I won't delve into here. But with all the great writing on this site lately, I figured I'd post some of my stuff which many of you may not have seen.

A little more background on the story: Brent owns a software company and Anna is his top assistant. pee-pee stays home and serves as nanny and maid. Of course, pee-pee wears a spiked chastity cage. He's not allowed to sit on the furniture, and he doesn't eat the gourmet food he cooks for his masters, but subsists on cans of no-name soup and oatmeal-and-water breakfasts. One of Anna's rules is that pee-pee gets a daily whipping to remind him that he's only a slave; every night at 8 pm he has to fetch his cane, kneel before his wife's lover and beg for his "daily reminder," which is 20 strokes unless extra are ordered for whatever reason. Then, pee-pee has to ask his master if he can "thank him for his instruction" by giving him a blowjob.

Also, one of pee-pee's punishments is a "hot pocket" -- a butt plug coated with Ben Gay. The cuck slave ****** on the floor outside his masters' bedroom; if he's good, before he goes to bed he can beg for "beanbag privileges" which means he gets to ***** on a pathetic little beanbag. Otherwise, he ****** on the hard floor, with no blanket or pillow.


NOTE: While the baby is a character in the story NOTHING SEXUAL HAPPENS WITH HIM. I know the language constraints on this site are pretty stringent, even eliminating words like k i d and s o n, so I want to make clear that there's nothing untoward in this story involving chillens. If even that is too much for this site, then the mods can remove the posts, and I won't continue them.

With that, below are some diary entries from our hapless slave, pee-pee.

March 30, 2:29 a.m.

This is my first chance to write. I busted my ass all day today on Brent's boat ... well, I guess that was yesterday now. I'm all mixed up. I can't s l e e p again; Junior keeps waking me up with his fussing.

I don't want to risk the baby rousing my masters, because that's a surefire route to an extra ass-whipping, a "hot pocket," or weeks added onto my chastity. So, I dragged my beanbag and journal into the baby's room; that way, I can get to him as soon as he starts to cry. Luckily, there's enough moonlight shining through the window to allow me to write, since there's no way I could leave the light on with the brat *****ing. Writing makes me drowsy, and I need to get some rest.

I don't know why I'm not tired, though, since I haven't gotten a lot of ***** lately. Per my master's orders, I woke up early yesterday morning and took care of all my quiet chores: Dusting, polishing, waxing floors, making sure the toilet paper in both bathrooms was folded at 45-degree angles, etc. Luckily, I had finished most of the laundry the day before, so I just had to hand-wash Anna's panties and Brent's boxers, and put the outfits they wore yesterday into the clothesbasket. Since that wasn't enough for a whole load, I'll do one in a few days, but I'm all caught up for now, thank goodness.

When my chores were finished, I went into the living room, sat on the floor and put the TV on low volume. Unless I'm being punished, they'll allow me to watch TV during the early mornings and when they're gone — but I don't need to be reminded to turn the volume down when they're *****ing, because I know how cranky my masters can be when I wake them up early!

The last time that happened, I accidently dropped a plate, which shattered loudly on the kitchen floor. Anna made me wear a "hot pocket" for 3 days, which I was required to pull out and replenish with fresh Ben Gay every hour. I also lost my beanbag privileges for a month. So, when I'm allowed to watch TV, you can bet I set the volume on 1 and count myself lucky!

I was perched on the floor in front of the television, leaning in close to the speaker to better hear the wildlife program I was watching when Anna called, "pee-pee! Coffee!" Within less than a minute, I was knocking on their bedroom door, coffee tray in hand.

"Come in, pee-pee," Brent called, his voice signaling he was in a good mood. I sighed; you don't know how horribly my days can turn out when one of them is feeling pissy, so it's a blessing when they're content.

Anna still wore the white see-through nightgown I'd laid out for her the night before, and as I set her coffee cup on her nightstand and caught a glimpse of her nipples through the fabric, I felt a stirring in my loins, immediately followed by the pain of my chastity spikes. I tried unsuccessfully to suppress my squeal.

My wife laughed. "What's wrong, pee-pee? Are these bothering you?" She slipped her tits from the top of her nightgown and presented them to me.

"You like?" Her lips formed a cruel smile as I squirmed in place, trying to balance the coffee tray.

"Y-yes, Mistress. T-t-thank you, Mistress."

Anna whipped back the covers, lifted her nightgown and spread her legs, showing me her beautiful pussy. I hyperventilated, which made her giggle.

"Poor pee-pee," she said in that syrupy, mocking tone. "How long has it been since you've been allowed to release your slime?"

"Uh, it's been two months, three weeks and four days, Mistress."

Brent chuckled. "Not that anyone's counting."

My wife arched her back, thrusting her vagina toward me. "Don't you wish you could have this, you wimpy, short-dicked little faggot?"

By now, I could barely breathe, and it was all I could do to blubber, "y-y-yes, Mistress."

She smirked. "Keep on wishing, pee-pee," she said, closing her legs and fixing her nightgown. "Keep on wishing."

Brent clapped. "Okay, pee-pee, fun time's over, I'm fucking starving. What can you whip up for us real quick?"

I sucked in a deep breath, still peaked from my wife's sex show. "Uh, is bacon and eggs, okay, sir?"

"Yeah, but hurry up."

"Yes, sir, coming right up, sir."

My wife sipped her coffee. "Sausage for me. And toast."

"Yes, Mistress."

I refilled their cups then literally ran downstairs to make their breakfast. It's a pain in the ass to have to make both bacon and sausage, but as you've probably gathered by now, my masters don't give a ****.

Breakfast was piping hot and ready within a few minutes, and I served my masters after knocking on their bedroom door.

Brent dug in. "Go bring the car around front, pee-pee," he said with his mouth full. "I'll be out in a little bit."

"Yes, sir."

I turned and obeyed, navigating my master's Mustang from the garage to the front curb. I vacated the driver's seat and stood outside the car waiting for Brent. I'm required to stand now, because once I was waiting inside the car while Anna and Brent were shopping, and when they came back and saw me reclining in the backseat, Anna said, "it just seems disrespectful for our slave to be chilling in our car like that." So now I have to stand at attention outside the car and wait for them. Another one of Anna's rules.

As is the case when I hover too close to restaurant entrances while waiting for my masters, when I stand outside the car, I've gotten more than a few curious looks from passers-by, especially when it's raining. I was once questioned by the cops, who demanded to know why I was loitering on Sycamore Street like that. I nodded toward my house and told them I lived there and was waiting on my roommate, but that I had a bad back and didn't like to sit. After checking my ID and verifying the address, the cops drove away — but I'm always keenly aware of what a figure I must cut standing there like that.

Our neighbors all know about our "poly" relationship, so those who don't approve have learned to just shake their heads at our "strange antics," while those who think it's cool will wave at me when they see me awaiting my masters. Although we are open about our lifestyle, we never do anything too over-the-top in public. There's nothing wrong with me standing outside my own house, and if anyone doesn't like it, that's their problem.

I figured it would take Brent about a half-hour to finish eating and shower, but I was wrong. I ended up standing there for nearly 2 hours before he came sauntering out of the house wearing a ********** grin. I held the door open for him like a good slave, and then scooted into the passenger seat.

"Sorry about that, pee-pee," he said as he fired up the ignition. "Had to take care of business — the missus was feeling a little frisky this morning."

"Yes, sir, I could tell."

"Yeah, she was teasing you pretty good earlier, wasn't she?"

"Yes, sir."

He shook his head. "I swear, I don't know how you can go for months at a time like that without cumming. No way I could do that."

I gulped. "I-it's not easy, sir."

"But you do it for Anna. She wants you to."

"Yes, sir."

He chuckled. "Boy, she can be a real bitch to you sometimes, can't she?"

I didn't know what to say. If I answered affirmatively, it could mean major punishment. I decided to go the safe route: "Um, I don't know, sir. I'm just glad she lets me stay with you guys. I just want to be useful, sir."

"Oh, you are, pee-pee," Brent said, navigating the steering wheel. "We both appreciate everything you do for us. I mean, I know you get off on being a slave, so it's not exactly like you're not getting anything out of it. But I really don't know what I'd do without you, pee-pee."

I felt my chest swell with pride. "Thank you so much, sir."

"I mean it," he said. "And I really appreciate how good you are with Junior. I really think we've got a nice little poly family going here, pee-pee."

"Thank you, sir. I agree. I'm grateful for the opportunity to serve you and my mistress ... and Junior."

"Well, I see how Anna can be with you, so I feel for ya, pee-pee."

"T-thank you, sir."

"But you're the one who asked for it. So, in the end, you actually like it when she treats you like ****. I'll never understand it, but whatever floats your boat."

"Yes, sir."

Brent flipped on the radio during the first few strains of "Trampled Underfoot" by Led Zeppelin, his favorite band, so he blasted the volume, cutting off further conversation.

After about a half-hour, we pulled into the boat slip where Brent keeps his 26-foot Chaparral 257 SSX docked.

"Time to get this bad boy ready for summer," he announced as we made our way to the dock.

Brent tuned up the boat's engine while I scrubbed the deck on my hands and knees. Then, he relaxed on a lawn chair sipping beer, watching me wax the bulkheads.

When I finished, I stood before him to get further instructions. I was hoping he'd let me sit down and take a break, but that wasn't in the cards.

"You need to go down below and get the diving gear; time to get that hull nice and smooth," he said, handing his beer bottle to me. There was still a little foamy liquid left in the bottom of the bottle.

"Here, you want my backwash?"

"Yes, sir, thank you."

I was grateful as I supped up what was left of the suds. Brent must have noticed that I was purposely stalling by taking tiny sips, trying to prolong my break, because he snapped: "Okay, pee-pee, get the lead out of your ass, we need to get this **** done."

We? Yeah, right. While I killed myself diving underwater and scrubbing the algae off the boat's hull with a wire brush, Brent went to the restaurant for lunch. At least he brought me back a hot dog; he even let me sit next to him on a lawn chair while I ate. I almost felt like his equal as we sat there together, gazing out over the water.

"I can't wait to get Junior out on the boat for the first time," Brent said.

"Oh, he's going to just love it, sir."

"Yeah, I bet he will," Brent said. "I'm gonna teach him how to swim early; my *** ain't gonna grow up to be a wimp. No offense, pee-pee."

"That's okay, sir. I know I'm ... a wimp."

Brent popped open another beer and handed it to me. "Here, pee-pee."

A tear came to my eye. "Oh, thank you so much, sir. Thank you so much."

Brent waved his hand. "No problem. You deserve it, pee-pee. The boat looks real good."

Being that I'm rarely allowed to imbibe, I can't hold my ******* at all. Maybe that's why after half-a-beer, not counting Brent's backwash, I felt emboldened to ask him a question that had been bothering me:

"Uh, sir, why does my mistress seem like she's always mad at me?"

He chuckled. "Yeah, I know, pee-pee. You do seem to piss her off a lot."

"I do everything I can, sir," I ******. "She's always punishing me, on top of my reminders."

Brent swigged his beer. "Well, you know Anna; she's pretty freaky. She's into giving out pain. I guess that's what makes you guys so compatible. I couldn't deal with it — but I do love to fuck, and the girl has the best pussy I've ever had."

"T-thank you, sir."

"That's why we all make such a great family — everyone fits their role." Brent smiled at me. "I'll tell you what, pee-pee: I know she's been hard on you lately, so I'll go easy when I give you your reminder tonight. It'll be our little secret. How's that?"

A tear fell down my cheek. "Thank you so much, sir."

He downed his beer and handed me the empty. "All right, pee-pee, let's get cleaned up and hit the road."

I scurried around putting things away while my master smoked a joint, watching me through buzzed eyes. When I was finished, he had me pull the car around and we drove home.

Anna was relaxing on the couch when I followed Brent into the house. After kissing her lover, my wife growled, "I'm hungry, pee-pee, get started on dinner — and hurry up."

"Yes, Mistress." Jeez, I hadn't been in the house 20 seconds before she started barking orders at me.

Because Brent and I had spent so much time at the dock, dinner was served a little later than usual. They were still eating at 8 p.m. when I fetched the cane, knelt near the dining room table and repeated my mantra:

"Sir, may I please have my daily reminder, sir?"

Anna scowled. "That reminds me, I wanted you to give him double tonight," she told her boyfriend. "Forty strokes, extra hard; there was a damned scuff mark on my red pumps."

"I'm so sorry, Mistress."

"Shut the fuck up, slime," she spat. "Drop your pants, grab your ankles and stay there."

As I began untying the drawstring on my sweatpants, I caught eye contact with Brent, who shrugged as if to say "sorry." Our deal was off. He wouldn't be going light on me.

It's difficult maintaining balance while bent over grasping my ankles, but over the years I've learned to hold the position. I stayed that way for about 20 minutes while my masters enjoyed the chicken stir fry I'd cooked.

After dinner, it was punishment time. I couldn't make it to 30 strokes before I started wailing, prompting Anna to stuff one of Brent's sweat socks in my mouth to muffle the noise so I wouldn't wake up the baby.

I don't know how I endured the last 10 strokes but I did, although I knew I wouldn't be sitting down for a week. I was sobbing so profusely I could barely get out the required post-whipping question:

"T-t-t-t-thank you, sir. M-m-m-may I t-t-thank you properly for my ... for my instruction, sir?"

I closed my eyes. I really didn't feel like sucking his dick, but I knew I had no choice in the matter.

Brent rubbed his chin. "Nah," he drawled. "But I'll tell you how you can thank me: A nice, long foot rub."

"Oh, yes, Master, thank you, sir, may I have permission to get the foot kit, sir?"

Anna chuckled. "I think he likes doing your feet more than sucking your dick, although that doesn't make any sense, since he's a little faggot."

I put on my sheepish slave smile and said, "thank you, Mistress." Imagine how embarrassing it is to have to thank your wife for calling you a faggot, right after she ordered an extra 20 strokes because there was a tiny scuff mark on her precious shoe!

Oh, well. Embarrassment is a way of life for pee-pee the cuckold slave. I shrugged it off and spent the next hour rubbing my master's feet while he cuddled with my wife on the couch.

Well, I'm finally about ready to crash. Let's pray Junior doesn't start crying again.

April 1, 1:32 a.m.

Well, diary, another late-night entry. Or, is that an early morning entry? Brent Junior has me upside down. I just got him quiet after he woke up crying yet again — and, again, I'm suffering from insomnia. But all is well for a change. Physically, I'm feeling a little rundown, but my spirits are as high as they've been in some time. I had hoped Anna would be in a good mood when she came home from work, but I couldn't have wished for a night like tonight in my wildest dreams.

I created a culinary masterpiece for dinner: Mediterranean-style baked sole fillet, Anna's favorite, with all her beloved side dishes. It was a hit; she smiled as soon as she walked through the door and smelled it.

Anna and Brent usually arrive home together, but tonight she was alone. As always, I rushed to the foyer to greet her, and she smiled and handed me her purse.

"Mmmm, smells good, pee-pee."

My heart soared at the rare smile and compliment. "T-thank you, Mistress. Dinner will be ready soon. Um, will Master Brent be joining us?"

"No, the software division is dealing with some major **** and he had to stay; he'll get an Uber later," she said. "Where's little Brent?"

"He went down for a nap about 20 minutes ago, Mistress. He was really good today, Mistress."

"Oh, good." My wife turned and walked to the baby's room. After poking her head in to check on him, she drifted back into the living room and plopped onto her soft La-Z-Boy chair. With a sigh, she activated the footrest. "How long until dinner?"

"About 15 minutes, Mistress."

"Good, just enough time for a quick foot rub. My feet are killing me."

I leapt at the chance to massage my wife's feet, and dashed to get the foot kit, which consists of lotions, pumice stones, files and other reflexology tools. While I worked peppermint lotion into Anna's feet, she fanned through her mail, and then twiddled with her cell phone. She was distracted, so I sneaked a peek at her crotch; her tan linen pants hugged her vagina, making for a wonderful camel-toe. With furtive glances, I studied the contours of her pussy, puffing out like that against the tight material. It was smirking at me. Then came the pain from my spikes, and I closed my eyes and thought "baseball, baseball, baseball, baseball."

When the oven buzzer sounded, Mistress excused me to get dinner. I washed my hands and fetched Anna's plate before taking my usual mealtime spot, kneeling on the carpet near the table.

Anna took a bite and closed her eyes. "Mmmmmm, that is SO GOOD, pee-pee."

My eyes welled. My chest swelled. My heart hummed. Two compliments from Mistress in one day? I can't remember the last time that happened.

We actually had a nice conversation while I knelt there, and neither of us thought that was odd in the least bit.

"Brent and I were talking, and we're thinking it's getting time for you to start potty-training Junior." Anna sipped her seltzer water. "Tomorrow, you need to run out to Target and get a potty chair."

"Yes, Mistress."

"And start Googling some potty-training techniques," she said. "You have permission to use the laptop."

"Yes, Mistress, thank you, Mistress."

Anna chuckled. "Boy, I'll bet you'll be the happiest per*** in the world when Junior's potty-trained. I really appreciate having you around, pee-pee — I just don't do diapers."

"Of course not, Mistress, you shouldn't have to," I said. "Neither should Master. That's what I'm for. I'm so happy to serve you two, Mistress, I just can't tell you."

Anna studied my face. "Well, we appreciate you, pee-pee. We really do. This is a nice little family we've got going here. A nice poly family, and you're an important part of it, pee-pee. Never forget that, even if Mistress is mean to you sometimes. I'm just giving you what you asked for, because I love you, pee-pee. I love you as my slave, but I really do love you. Both of us do. You're our little pee-pee."

I couldn't help it; I started crying. Unfortunately, that annoyed my mistress.

"For chrissakes, I know you're not a man, but can't you at least try to act like it sometimes?"

"I-I'm sorry, Mistress. I just ... I just really am happy that you're happy, Mistress, and I think we have a nice little family, too, and I'm grateful to be a part of it."

"Well, that's nice, pee-pee, we're glad to have you, too — even if you do act like a whiny little bitch sometimes."

"I'm so sorry, Mistress."

"Uh huh." She pushed away her plate and emitted a feminine little burp. "That was good. I'm gonna watch the news; go check on Junior, and bring him out when he wakes up."

"Yes, Mistress, thank you."

The baby started crying while I was doing the dishes. He was dry, so I calmed him for a moment, dressed him in a cute sailor outfit, and presented him to his mommy.

I had restarted the dinner dishes when Mistress called for a ***** refill. I walked into the living room on eggshells, fearing her good mood had been ruined by my wimpy bawling. She was on the floor with her *** playing with stuffed *******, and didn't even glance up when I brought in her fresh glass of seltzer water.

I'd just resumed doing the dishes when I was again interrupted by my wife: "pee-pee! Come change him."

I sighed and turned off the faucet. It's hard to get anything done with her calling me every few seconds. At least it wasn't her usual sarcastic "diiiiiiaper duuuuuuty," which I figured was an indication that she wasn't annoyed with me anymore.

I put the blanket on the living room floor and changed Brent Junior's piss-soaked diaper while my wife sat on the couch sipping her water. "When you go to Target tomorrow, make sure you get a good potty seat. They make them with handles that make real flush sounds; get one of those."

"Yes, Mistress, I'll get a real good one."

"While you're on the laptop looking for techniques, you should Google reviews for different potty seats, to find the best one," she said. "In fact, why don't you go do that now? Print out some articles so Brent and me can see what the different options are."

"Of course, Mistress."

I spent the next hour or so sitting on the living room floor in front of the laptop, researching the best potty seats and techniques for toilet training 14-month-olds. I printed out the articles I thought would interest my masters.

Brent came home while I was on the computer. Anna was in the bathroom at the time, and their *** was in his playpen. He stood in the foyer, smirking.

"Hey, pee-pee, looking up porn instead of doing your housework?"

I jumped to my feet. "No, sir; uh, Mistress wanted me to look for potty seats, and some techniques for potty-training Junior, sir. I'm printing out a bunch of articles, so you guys can decide, sir."

He let his jacket fall to the floor and took his spot on the couch. I picked up the jacket and rushed to fetch my master's usual after-work shot of Jack with a glass of Coke on the side.

Brent took a sip and sighed. "That hit the spot. What a day."

Anna coasted out of the bathroom, sat next to her boyfriend and kissed him. "Crisis fixed?"

"Yeah, that damned Williams fucks things up left and right." Brent kicked off his shoes. "I'm thinking I should just fire his ass."

"You know how I feel about it," my wife said. "He's a fucking moron."

Brent exhaled. "I know, but I don't want to piss off Jack***. I knew it was a bad idea to hire his fucking nephew. Never hire a relative of an important client, because you might have to fire him someday. Fuck." Brent wiggled his socked toes. "Pee-pee, come get on these feet."

I retrieved the foot kit and knelt before Brent. "Um, socks on or off tonight, sir?"

"Off."

I started to slip off my master's socks when Anna stopped me. "Wait," she said. "Go get the articles you printed."

I obeyed, and while I diligently worked lotion into Brent's feet, he and Anna perused the potty seat reviews and articles about training. By the time I'd finished with the foot massage, they'd settled on the Summer ****** My Size seat, which had the features they wanted, including the flush sound. They also discussed with me some of the training techniques they wanted me to use to potty-train their ***.

I put the foot kit away and glanced at the clock: 7:59. I panicked and hurried to fetch the cane so I could be in my designated spot on my knees at 8 p.m. sharp, as required.

My wife and Brent were chilling on the couch watching a "Friends" rerun when I asked my little question: "Sir, may I please have my daily reminder, sir?"

Anna stretched languidly. "You know what, pee-pee? I'm gonna let you slide tonight, how's that?"

I ****** out a thank-you, trying my best not to cry, lest I piss her off again. Brent grinned.

"Boy, you're flying high tonight, huh, pee-pee?"

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir."

He chuckled and looked at Anna. "Baby, I've had a day. I'd like to ... um ... unwind a little if you catch my drift."

My wife smiled and looked down at me, still on my knees with the cane in my hands. "Your master is a horny bastard, you know that?"

I blushed. "Yes, Mistress." Then, reading the room, I ventured a little joke: "Not that you mind too much, Mistress."

They both laughed, and Brent reached down and ruffled my hair. "She's a tigress, pee-pee. Wears me out."

A normal man would've been utterly humiliated to hear his wife's lover josh him about their torrid sex life, but I can't describe how happy I felt as they bantered with me like that, just like old times. My spirits soared as they got up and walked hand-in-hand toward the bedroom. I gathered their *****s and followed them, staring at Anna's ass as she walked up the stairs. Then the chastity spikes bit me, and I focused my gaze elsewhere.

I glided through the bedtime routine, setting their *****s on the respective nightstands, lowering the lights, turning down the comforter, and setting out Anna's nightgown. When I lay her blue negligee on the mattress, she shook her head.

"Put it on the dresser," she said, nodding at Brent's erection, which made his underwear poke out. "From the looks of that thing, I'm not gonna need to wear anything for a while."

Brent fell onto the bed and grinned. "You can always put it on and I can rip it off you."

"Hell no — that's one of my favorite negligees," she said.

Brent shimmied off his boxers and handed them to me. "Oh, well, pee-pee, looks like I'm **** out of luck."

"I guess so, sir," I said with a smile as I took his underwear from him.

Anna lay back and spread her legs. "Make me wet, pee-pee."

"Oh, yes, Mistress, thank you, Mistress."

Brent chuckled at my gushing enthusiasm as I plunged into my work. I know how Anna likes to be licked in different situations; there's a tongue-stroke for getting her wet for Brent; another for licking up his cum; another for when she wants a quick orgasm; and yet another when she wishes to just lay back and relax for an hour or so.

As I licked, my mind was flooded with cuckold angst, as I reflected on how this was BRENT'S pussy. HE owned it. HE fucked it. My job was to respectfully get her wet, to better facilitate the lovemaking of two people who are so far above me, I'm not even part of the same species. THEY'RE going to have sex like normal people. I'M the freak. I'M the one whose penis is locked up in a spiked cage — and the smell and taste of my beautiful mistress's divine vagina served to remind me of those spikes the entire time I licked her. That always happens, and it's exceedingly difficult to refrain from moaning in pain and lust.

After a few minutes, she tweaked my ear, indicating I should move out of the way. Brent mounted her as I slid off the mattress and knelt at the foot of the bed.

They went at it. My god, did they go at it!

I'm always awed at Brent's sexual prowess. Sure, my master is well-hung, but that's not it. He knows exactly which buttons to push. Anna starts squirming the instant he touches her, and doesn't stop until long after they've both had their orgasms.

Fearing the certain retribution of the spikes in my chastity cage, I tried not to watch them fucking — "tried" being the operative word. I couldn't help it, and then had to literally bite my tongue to keep from yelping out loud.

Finally, my master blew his load, groaning like a wounded elk. Mistress matched him whimper for whimper.

When their heavy breathing subsided, Mistress waved her hand in my direction. "Come on," was all she needed to say, and within two seconds I was between her legs, slowly and respectfully licking up Brent's salty deposit.

Her vagina feels entirely different on my tongue after she's been fucked; the lips are looser, obviously, and the heat from their friction radiates from her skin. The mixed scents of pussy, dick, ass, cum and sweat overwhelm me and suck me in, and I float on a submissive cloud ...

Please, Mistress, please, am I being a good slave for you? Can you read my mind, Mistress? I know you're better than me and deserve a real man like Brent. I love you, Mistress, and I hope I'm pleasing you by licking up your boyfriend's cum. I'm trying my best to please you, Mistress. I'm trying my best ... I love you ... please, Mistress, please ...

Anna patted my head. "Move."

"Thank you, Mistress." I looked up at Brent. "May I clean you, sir?"

He sighed. "Sure, go for it, pee-pee."

That cleaning job wasn't anywhere near enjoyable as the one I'd just finished, but over the years I've gotten used to it. Every time I suck my master's dick, I'm overwhelmed with a million emotions, and the questions keep hammering me in the head: "Am I gay? I'm sucking a man's dick, aren't I? I'm at least bi, right? Then again, who cares about labels, anyway? It's just a word. But ... am I gay? I'm sucking a man's dick, aren't I?"

One game I play with myself when I'm cleaning Brent is to seek out the taste of Anna's pussy juices. It helps to have something to focus on as I ***** my tongue to burrow into Master's wiry pubes, or when I have to dive down and lick up anything that may have trickled down to his hairy, disgusting asshole.

I had to take that dive tonight, and it must've triggered something in Brent, because he said, "you know what, pee-pee? You are now officially on booty-duty."

My wife rolled her eyes. "Jeez, Brent, can you go one night without his tongue in your ass?"

Brent chuckled. "Well, what can I say? I like having my salad tossed. And pee-pee likes it, too — don't you, pee-pee?"

"Yes, sir," I lied.

Anna scoffed. "I know that's bull****. I feel for ya, pee-pee — there's no way I'd go anywhere near that nasty ass."

"Hey, I resemble that remark," Brent joked as he rolled over. He winked at me, wiggled his ass, and sang the lyric: "Get down on it / get down on it."

I got down on it. It was demoralizing, but I did a yeoman's job as my masters relaxed and talked about the ongoing problem in the software division at work.

After about 10 minutes, the baby started to cry. Brent clinched up his butt cheeks on my tongue.

"Oh, well, looks like fun time's over," he said as I rolled out of bed.

I stood before the reclining couple. "Thank you for letting me serve you tonight. Um, is it okay if I ***** on the beanbag?"

"No problem, pee-pee," Brent said as he pulled up the covers, obscuring their naked bodies.

Anna yawned. "Go take care of Junior," she said. "And keep him quiet; I want to get to *****."

"Yes, Mistress," I said. "Thank you."

I tended to their baby with a ***g in my heart.

I was able to get a few hours' ***** before his crying woke me again. I'm still not tired, but I'm going to lay back down on my beanbag outside the bedroom and listen to my mistress and master snore.

Good night.

April 4, 2:39 p.m.

My masters were nice to me the other night, but they showed their dark side yesterday and I feel totally betrayed. The minute they got a chance to show off for their friends, they threw me right under the bus, and put me firmly back in my cuckold slave place with no concern for my feelings whatsoever.

That's the bad news. The good news is that they finally let me cum for the first time in 3 months, and my orgasm was so intense, I'm still twitching a day later.

But I'm not sure it was worth it.

Mistress called from the office a little after 4 yesterday to tell me Marc and Jenny were coming over for dinner. I would've liked more notice, but that's never a concern; my wife and her boyfriend dump stuff on me at the last minute all the time, and I'm just expected to smile and get it done.

I had planned on making steaks but there were only two, so I scanned the shelves to see what else we had that would feed 4 quickly. I decided on a casserole, and within minutes it was warming in the oven while I dashed around making sure the house was extra clean, since we were having guests.

Marc and Jenny arrived before my masters. When I answered the doorbell, they barged right in without waiting for an invitation.

I cleared my throat. "Um, I'm sorry, but my masters aren't home yet. Please come in and sit down; can I bring you *********

They ignored me and strolled into the living room toward Junior's playpen. "Hey, cutie," Jenny said as she bent down and picked him up. Then, she said to me over her shoulder, "a glass of wine, pee-pee."

"Yes, ma'am. Red or white, ma'am?"

"White."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Rum and Coke for me," Marc said.

"Coming right up, sir."

By the time I got back with the ******, Jenny and Marc were lounging on the sofa, while Brent Junior played on the carpet nearby with his blocks. I handed our visitors their beverages and stood before them with my hands folded respectfully.

"Ma'am? Sir? Is there anything else I can get you?"

Jenny took a sip of wine and sighed. "Yeah, pee-pee, I have been dying for one of your foot rubs."

"Yes, ma'am, I'll go get the kit right away, ma'am."

I rubbed Jenny's feet for about 15 minutes while she and her boyfriend played with Junior and watched the news until Anna and Brent finally came home.

Anna laughed when she saw what Jenny had me doing. "Looks like someone's feeling right at home," my wife said, dropping her purse on the carpet.

Jenny cocked her head. "Hey, girl, you said I could use him anytime I want, and my feet are killing me."

Anna waved her hand. "Oh, don't worry, I'm kidding, that's what he's here for — although I'm wondering if you wouldn't mind a brief interruption; I could use one of those Chardonnays."

Brent dropped his jacket on the floor near his girlfriend's purse. "A ***** for me, too, pee-pee. A nice, stiff one."

Marc quipped, "a nice stiff one — that's what she said," and everyone chuckled while I scurried away to pick up the purse and jacket before fulfilling my masters' ***** orders.

Within a few minutes I found myself back on my knees rubbing Miss Jenny's feet while my superiors chatted. Although I eventually became one of the topics of discussion, they talked about me like I wasn't even in the room.

"We're gonna want to start planting that sod probably next week," Marc said. "I'm thinking it'll take at least a full day, maybe two. Probably two, because we're gonna have him plant those shrubs, too."

"No problem," Brent said. "Pee-pee's available, no matter how long it takes. I owe you for that engine block, dude."

"No worries, man. I was thinking, though: if it does take him more than one day, would you guys have a problem if he just crashed at our place, so we don't have to drive him home and pick him up again?" Marc asked. "I guess he could just take the bus back and forth, but I'd like to get him started early."

"Oh, no problem, he can just ***** in the shed," Anna said, and my heart dropped into my stomach. Because my wife wanted to show off for her friends, I wasn't even going to be allowed the "luxury" of *****ing on the floor in Jen and Marc's warm house after slaving for them all day.

Jenny picked up on my disappointment and giggled. "Poor pee-pee," she said as I rubbed lotion into her feet. "Mistress is always so mean to you, isn't she?"

There was no way to answer that, so I played it safe. "I'm just happy when my mistress is happy, Miss Jenny."

Jenny scoffed. "Bull****. Nobody could be happy about *****ing in the shed. Not even you, a little bitch who *****s on the floor every night."

Everyone laughed. Except me.

The foot massage was cut short when the oven buzzer signaled that the casserole was ready. I served dinner along with another round of ******, and then took my place on my knees. Their conversation veered from politics, movies, sports, home improvement projects and sex. I was ignored until one of them would either rattle the ice in their otherwise empty glass in my direction, or simply call out, "pee-pee," and point to the ***** that needed refilling.

Everyone seemed to be getting comfortably numb from the ******* — which was a source of major apprehension for me, since my masters and their friends can get really nasty to me when they're *****.

After the third round, Jenny was obviously feeling tipsy, and she started fucking with me.

"pee-pee," she slurred. "Bring me a napkin."

The napkin dispenser was right at her elbow, but I got off my knees and set a napkin in front of her. Of course, I folded it first, as a way of showing **********. I was trying to impress my masters with impeccable service.

I returned to my knees, and Jenny made a dramatic show of dropping the napkin on the floor. "Oops! Come pick that up, would you, pee-pee?"

I again struggled to my feet, picked up the napkin, and returned to my knees. I hadn't been there a half-second before Jenny said, "but pee-pee, now I need another napkin. This one fell on the floor. It's dirty."

So, I got up again and gave her another napkin. Once again, as soon as I knelt, she dropped the napkin on the floor and said, "oops! Darn it, I'm just Miss Butterfingers tonight!"

She repeated the process no less than 8 times, until I was sweating and heaving from getting up and down like that, which seemed to amuse everyone in the room. Their cruel fun was interrupted when Junior woke up in his playpen and started crying.

Jenny smirked. "Uh oh, looks like someone's got a diaper to change."

"Diiiiiaaaaaaapper duuuuuuuuuutttttyyy!" my wife called out.

Jenny joined her: "Diiiiiaaaaaaapper duuuuuuuuuutttttyyy!"

Everyone cracked up as I scurried to the playpen to tend to the crying baby.

By the time I got Brent Junior changed, they had moved the party to the living room. I brought in the baby, and the ladies made a fuss over him while the guys talked sports. I knelt there for at least a half-hour, ignored except when someone wanted a ***** refill, which was fine by me.

Finally, my wife leaned forward on the couch and offered her *** to me. "Here, put him to bed," she said.

I did as my mistress told, and then glanced at the hall clock. When I saw the time — 8:16 — I panicked, fumbled in the closet until I found the cane, and then literally ran back into the living room and fell to my knees in front of my master.

"Sir, I'm so sorry I'm late, but I was serving you guys, sir, and lost track. Please forgive me ... may I please have my daily reminder, sir?"

Anna looked at the clock. "You're 20 minutes late; how is that our fault?"

"Oh, no, please, Mistress, I wasn't saying that, Mistress ... it's just that ... it's just that I had to take care of Junior, and change him—"

My wife interrupted: "So, now it's Junior's fault?"

"No, Mistress, I ... I ... I ..." I hung my head. "I'm sorry, Mistress." There was nothing more I could say, and although I knew apologizing for something that wasn't my fault wouldn't prevent me from getting my ass whipped, through the years I've found it best to just apologize as a matter of course.

She looked at Brent. "I say we give him an extra stroke for every minute he was late — 20 extra."

Brent clucked his tongue. "See what you went and done, pee-pee? Here I am relaxing on this nice, soft couch, and now I have to get my ass up and not only give you your reminder, but an extra 20. Didn't I just give you an extra 20 the other night?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"He never learns," Anna said, and I wanted to cry because it felt like everyone was picking on me. I peeked at our guests out of the corner of my eye; they were kicked back on the couch, *****s in hand, leering, enjoying the show.

Jenny caught me looking at her and smirked. "Aw, are you sad, pee-pee? You look so sad."

"N-n--no, ma'am."

Marc nodded at the cane in my hands and sniggered. "****, if I was about to get my ass beat with that thing, I'd be fucking sad."

Everyone laughed at me. I stood there absorbing it.

Then, Brent clambered off the couch and snatched the cane from my hands. "I hope you appreciate this, pee-pee," he said. "I was nice and comfortable, and now I have to take the time out to remind you that you're a wimpy little shrimp-dick."

"T-thank you, sir. I do appreciate it."

"That's a good pee-pee. Now, drop 'em and grab your ankles. You say you appreciate getting the **** whipped out of you? Well, it's your lucky day, pee-pee, because I'm about to do you a major favor."

I got into position and Brent went to town, turning my ass to hamburger, while my wife egged him on: "Hit him harder. Make his ass suffer."

Brent was happy to oblige, and after stroke 27 I fell to the carpet and rolled over in the ***** position, pleading, bawling, blubbering and begging. I can barely remember those few seconds; everything was fuzzy amid the pain and *********** being inflicted on me.

One thing that wasn't fuzzy was the sound of my wife's voice: "Add on another 10."

Oh, no. Please, Mistress. Don't you love me? Even just a little? Where did I go wrong? I'm so sorry for ... sorry for ... what did I even do, Mistress? Why do you hate me? You have your lover beat me every night, even when I serve you well, Mistress. I try so hard ... I know you don't love me anymore ... I know he's replaced me, and I get it, because he's so far above me, Mistress, and I could never compete with him. But, please, Mistress, I'm loyal to you ... I do everything you say ... I try so hard to make you happy, Mistress ... please, please don't let him beat me anymore ... PLEASE DON'T LET HIM BEAT ME ANYMORE!

My telepathic appeal was never heard. In my fantasy world, I'd hoped Anna would rescue me from the terrible whipping; instead, she watched with a smirk as Brent ordered me back into position, bent over holding onto my ankles. Then, the barrage restarted. Those final strokes were probably the worst pain I've ever experienced. I don't know how I managed to keep from screaming, but with a *****ing baby upstairs, I simply had to hold it in, period. And I did.

As required, I again knelt before my master and asked if I could thank him for the beating by sucking his dick. He shook his head, and I heaved a sigh of relief.

It was all downhill from there.

I had just served another round of ******, and they were all feeling no pain when Brent suddenly looked over at me and said, "hey, pee-pee, tell you what — come smell this fart, and if you can guess what I had for lunch today, you can take off your cage and play with yourself."

Everyone died laughing, and I felt a surge of self-loathing as I found myself rushing to kneel in front of my master, my excitement at the prospect of cumming overshadowing the embarrassment I felt not only at the order Brent gave, but my enthusiasm for following it in front of company.

Brent shifted his weight on the couch and spread his legs. "Ready?

"Yes, sir."

BRRRRRRIP! He unleashed a long fart that began to stink immediately. Anna held her nose with one hand and punched his arm with the other.

"Goddamn it, Brent, you're nasty."

Jen, who also held her nose, said, "pee-pee doesn't think so, do you, pee-pee?"

Brent held up a finger. "Quiet, don't bother him, he's trying to concentrate."

They all watched me make a fool of myself sniffing the air next to Brent's butt as though I were a wine-taster absorbing the nose of the finest vintage Bordeaux.

I blocked out their taunts, hoping against hope I could distinguish some scent that might provide a clue to my master's lunchtime menu. I detected a slight hint of pepperoni, so I blinked, looked at the carpet, and squeaked: "Um...pizza, sir?"

Brent and Anna cheered.

"Papa Joe's Pizza — nailed it!" Brent offered me a high-five, which I sheepishly returned.

He tousled my hair. "Nice work, pee-pee. Go ahead and get my keychain."

I tried not to appear too anxious as I rushed to fetch my master's keys — and THE key. Brent eyed me with amusement as I fell to my knees before him and offered the key.

"Well, you do it, pee-pee — I ain't reaching down there," Brent said. "What do you think I am, a fag?"

It took me less than five seconds to get that hated chastity device off, and the cool air felt like menthol on the long-hibernated shaft. My dick began to swell, and I ************* flinched, a reflex from all those months with sharp spikes lining my cage. But within a nanosecond my mind relaxed, and my dick grew to its full glorious 3.4675 erect inches, or as I round it off, 3-and-a-half inches. But I didn't dare touch it.

My wife smiled at me. "How do you want to cum tonight, pee-pee?"

"I-I don't know, Mistress."

"How about cuck-side down cake?"

"Whatever you want, Mistress."

Jenny cocked an eyebrow. "What's a cuck-side down cake?"

Brent chuckled. "Just watch."

I was mortified as I propped my feet and backside against the living room wall, positioning myself upside-down so that my crotch was just inches from my nose.

My wife settled into Brent's arms. "Ready?" she asked.

"Yes, Mistress."

"Go."

It took only 7 strokes before I groaned and began shooting darts of cum on my own face, as taunts and jeers swirled around me.

Without being told, I began wiping up the cum with my fingers and licking them clean. Brent took a sip of his *****. "Tell me something, pee-pee, does your cum taste any different than mine?"

Red-faced, I answered, "yours is chunkier, sir." Everyone cracked up.

Anna shot me a vicious look. "And yours is watery," she said. "That slime couldn't make a baby fish, let alone a baby."

"Yes, Mistress."

"That's okay, I've got this guy," my wife said, snuggling Brent's bicep.

"Yes, Mistress."

Jen giggled. "Recite that little thing you said at Anna's baby shower."

My ears burned. I wanted to look to my wife for help, but I was afraid to make eye contact with her. I thought maybe if I ignored the request it would disappear. It didn't.

My wife scowled. "Jen just gave you an order, pee-pee. I told you — you treat our friends like you treat us. Got it?"

A tear formed at the corner of my eye. "Y-yes, Mistress, I'm sorry."

Seconds passed. Mistress tapped her foot. "Well?"

I cleared my throat. "I'm ... I'm g-grateful to the poly lifestyle that allows my ... my wife to be able to ... um ... conceive ... with ... with a superior man like Brent, and I will work hard to provide devoted service to them and their wonderful baby."

The whole room cheered.

Jenny and Marc left not long after that, and I tucked my masters in bed. To my surprise, they granted me beanbag privileges.

As I said, tonight wasn't all bad.

Well, I've still got a few chores to catch up on before my masters get home from work, so I guess I'll check in later, dear diary.

April 9, 8:23 a.m.

Dear diary,

This is my first chance to write in quite a while. Anna and Brent just left for work, the baby is napping, and I finally have a few minutes to myself to process the painful events of the past few days.

I normally log diary entries late in the evenings when they're a*****, or during the day when they're at work, but I haven't had the opportunity since they were home all weekend, and I spent both nights lying on the floor squirming and bawling with a hot pocket shoved up my ass. As you can imagine, I wasn't much in the mood to write.

My anal ******* finally ended this morning ... or, at least, the worst is over, although the pain hasn't subsided yet. Mistress gave me permission to remove the butt plug almost an hour ago, but the residue from the Ben Gay still burns like crazy. I guess that's the point; when my wife punishes me, she wants to make sure I get the message — and retain it.

My infraction? Well, it wasn't anything I did, although I got blamed for it because I get blamed for everything around here. In a nutshell, my wife went to use the bathroom Saturday and found piss all over the toilet seat and on the floor, which is probably her biggest pet peeve.

It wasn't my piss, mind you — it was Brent's — but, of course, I got punished for it.

One of my many household responsibilities is to ensure the toilet is cleaned immediately after my masters use it. Brent tends to "miss" when he pees, so it's my job to monitor his bathroom use and clean up after him when he's done — or face my wife's wrath.

That's easy enough on weeknights, when my daily chores are mostly done and I'm focused on being their per***al servant. Unless they have me busy with a specific project, I'm generally hovering near them after they get home from work, and can hear or see when either of them goes to the bathroom. If they ****, I'm required to spray air freshener, make sure the toilet is clean, and refold the toilet paper at the 45-degree angle Anna prefers. If she pisses, I just clean the toilet and fold the paper, but when Brent goes, he usually leaves a huge mess. I often wonder if he purposely misses the toilet, since there's piss everywhere. I go through a lot of Lysol.

The first time Brent pissed Saturday morning, there was no problem. I had just brought breakfast up to their bedroom, and as I was setting the tray on the bed, my master came strolling naked out of the bathroom, his dick flopping with every step.

"Hey, pee-pee, you're gonna want to hit that toilet," he said, jerking his thumb toward the bathroom. After I served breakfast, I fetched the disinfectant and cleaned up after my master.

Later that day, I wasn't so lucky. Mistress had ordered me to look in the basement for an old picture of her and her sister, and while I was rummaging through shoeboxes full of photographs, her scream from upstairs sent a chill down my spine: "pee-pee, get your ass up here — NOW!"

I rushed upstairs, and as soon as I saw her standing in the master bathroom tapping her foot, I guessed what had happened.

Anna pointed at the yellow droplets that stained the porcelain and tile. "What the hell is this?"

I had no answer. We both knew what it was — her slob of a boyfriend did what he always does, missed the toilet and pissed all over the damned bathroom, and, somehow, it was going to be my fault.

All I could do was apologize. "Please, Mistress, I am so sorry; I was in the basement looking for that picture you wanted—"

Before I could finish the sentence, my wife slapped the **** out of me. "Oh, so it's my fault?" she screamed.

I wanted to say, "no, it's your fucking boyfriend's fault," but my only option was to say, yet again, "I'm so sorry, Mistress."

"Sorry, my ass. You've been slacking off lately; that's what I get for going easy on you." Her lip curled. "Hot pocket. All weekend. And 50 with the cane, tonight and tomorrow. You need to learn, slave."

I fell to my knees and started crying. "Oh, please, Mistress, please, not a hot pocket. Please, I'm so sorry, please, I'll do anything."

"Shut up, wimp, or you'll wear it for a week, and I'll have Brent give you 100 strokes. You're wearing it until Monday morning — now go get it."

I hung my head and shuffled to the closet where they keep my "hot pocket kit" — a huge butt plug and a tube of Ben Gay. On the way back, I passed Brent, who was kicked back on the couch watching a hockey game.

He looked up from the TV. "I heard all the yelling; what'd you do now, pee-pee?"

I blinked back tears. "Um, there was ... there was pee on the toilet, sir."

Brent chuckled. "Oh, ****, I got you in trouble. Sorry about that, pee-pee." He didn't sound the least bit sorry; amused is more like it. Then, he noticed the Ben Gay and butt plug in my grip. "Hot pocket, eh?"

I looked at the carpet. "Y-yes, sir."

"How long?"

"A-all weekend, sir. And I ... I get 50 tonight and tomorrow for my ... my reminder."

He winced. "Ooh, that's tough, pee-pee. Damn. Well, you should know by now not to piss her off."

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir." Yeah. I was apologizing for being punished because HE can't be bothered to aim at the toilet when he pisses.

Our conversation was cut short when the Ducks scored a goal, prompting Brent to cuss at the TV — and prompting me to hightail it out of there.

Anna scowled when I returned to the master bedroom. "What the hell took you so long?"

"Um, Master was talking to me, ma'am."

Her eyes were cold. "Put it in."

With trembling fingers, I lubed up the butt plug with Ben Bay. Then, I lowered my pants and shoved it in. Within seconds, the pain washed over me, and I again fell to my knees.

"Oh, please, Mistress, mercy, it burns so bad, can I take it out, please—"

SLLLLAPPP!!

"That's it; go get the gag," Anna said after backhanding me. "And then, go find that damned picture of me and Becky, like I told you a goddamn hour ago. In fact, I want you to organize all those pictures down there; separate them by per*** and year. I've been meaning to get that done. And then, I want that oven cleaned out. And the fridge. And when you're done with that, find something else to do. Fucking faggot. I'm sick of hearing you whine. Go get the gag — now!"

My heart sank, but there was no negotiating; I retrieved the hated penis gag; she shoved it down my throat, locked it and slipped the key into her pocket. "That'll shut you the fuck up. Now, get out of my face."

With tears in my eyes, I duckwalked out of the bedroom, every step causing the mentholated plug to move in and out of my anus. It was sheer agony.

I again passed Brent in the living room. He snorted when he saw me wearing the penis gag. "Goddamn, pee-pee, you're just not having a good day, are you?"

"Nggg, srrrgh," I garbled through the gag.

"Well, I hate to break it to you, but your day is about to get even worse," he said. "Marc just called; he's bringing his truck over for you to detail. He says he wants it done good; he's gonna try to sell it and get a new one. So, that's gonna take you a few hours, at least."

Anna walked into the living as her boyfriend was giving me instructions. She snarled at me, "don't think that gets you out of your chores. I want everything done tonight; I don't give a **** if you're up all night. I'm tired of your bull****, pee-pee."

Tired of my bull****? What did I do? How is it my fault that her boyfriend pissed on the floor?

Sigh. I realize there's no answer to that question. How is it my fault? It just is. Everything is my fault.

I got started on my chores. After about 20 minutes, Junior woke up, and I had to run and change him.

As I stood there wiping his bottom, I thought about what would happen once he got a little older. Would I still be running around the house wearing a penis gag, or would my masters be more discrete about stuff like that? We've had a few conversations about their expectations, and they've made it clear that their *** will be raised to see me as the family servant, because that's what I am. But they never told me whether the kinky things we do will continue out in the open once Junior gets older. I imagine a lot of our more extreme activities will end up being curtailed, but that's not a subject my masters have seen fit to discuss with me so far.

After the baby was changed, I presented him to his parents in the living room. A short while later, Brent and Jen came by to drop off the truck, and they visited a spell.

As I set Marc's whiskey in front of him, he discussed me like he usually does, as though I wasn't even in the room. "You think he can get the truck detailed by tomorrow morning?" he asked Brent.

"Oh, yeah." My master snickered. "He might not get much ***** tonight, but pee-pee will get 'er done, won't you, pee-pee?"

"Yrsss sghrr," I garbled.

Jen giggled. "Poor pee-pee. Why'd you gag him?"

Brent chortled. "Well, I guess it's kind of my fault. I sort of missed in the bathroom, and pee-pee didn't clean it up in time."

"Well, that's no fair." Jen pouted. "Your mistress is mean, isn't she, pee-pee?"

I couldn't say anything, so I just hung my head.

Anna glared at me. "He needs to be punished; he's been lazy. I should've known not to slack off on his ass."

Marc laughed and leaned back in his seat. "Anna, if there's one thing I can guarantee, it's that YOU would never slack off on pee-pee."

Everyone got a chuckle out of that because they knew it was true. Anna's an open sadist, often joking with her friends about how much she loves seeing me in pain; her standard line is, "hey, what's the use in having a slave if you can't ***** the little bitch once in a while?"

Brent swigged his Labatt's and nodded at me. "Come kneel over here, pee-pee, and hold this."

I always feel so ridiculous when he makes me kneel by his chair, cupping his beer in my hands at an angle that's convenient for him, but incredibly uncomfortable for me. But I'm used to feeling ridiculous, and have learned to just bow my head and pretend I'm not eavesdropping on my superiors' conversation.

After about 20 minutes, I glanced at the clock; it was 7:58. I needed to be excused to retrieve the cane so I could beg for my daily reminder, but I was gagged and couldn't ask permission. When you've been a slave as long as I have, you learn to think on your feet, so I quickly formulated a plan: The next time Master removed his bottle from my hands to take a *****, I'd point at the clock and put my hands together as if in prayer, and then make a whipping motion.

I nervously eyed the clock, waiting for Brent to take a ***** while they discussed potential boating locations. I was already facing 50 strokes two nights in a row for the piss infraction, and was absolutely terrified at the prospect of even more punishment for a tardy daily reminder request.

Finally, at 7:59:34, Brent grabbed the bottle from my hands and took a swig. I immediately put my plan into action, gesturing to the clock and then clasping my hands in front of me as if in prayer. Then, under their amused gaze, I made a motion with my hand as if I were caning my own backside, before again clasping my hands in front of me. Everyone died laughing.

Jen shook her head. "Jeez, pee-pee, you are pathetic. PA-THE-TIC. You know that?"

"Tkrkankryu, mzzJnnryrr"

Brent handed me his empty beer bottle. "Go get me a cold one, pee-pee, and bring your cane."

The next few minutes are a blur; a wall of white noise and pain, with echoes of taunts and laughter. I do remember that I somehow managed to stay upright for all 50 strokes; and that I employed the same tactic after my beating, using pantomime to ask my master if he wanted me to thank him. I recall they all got a kick out of that. When Brent declined my invitation, I wasn't sure whether to be relieved. I hate sucking his dick, especially in front of company, but at least it would've meant relief from the gag for a few minutes. That decision, however, was out of my hands. The gag stayed on.

They chilled for about an hour before Jen drove Marc home in her car, leaving the truck for me to detail. Between that and all the other chores my wife had assigned me, I didn't finish until 4 a.m., and spent the rest of the miserable night lying on the cold floor, my ass burning from the hot pocket and my throat parched and sore from the infernal penis gag.

Sunday was another horrible day. I felt like a zombie. I'd busted my ass all night and gotten no *****. My throat and ass throbbed with unspeakable, unrelenting pain. I endured another 50 strokes for my daily reminder, and my poor ass was swollen and welted everywhere. If there was one silver lining, it was Anna's attitude. Her anger seemed to have subsided, and she pretty much ignored me all day as I struggled through my demanding Sunday house servant and nanny routine.

And, you can bet your ass I was Johnny-on-the-spot every time Brent took a piss!

Thank goodness my masters went to bed fairly early last night, and Junior only woke me up once crying, so I got a pretty good night's ***** for a change.

Well, ****, speaking of Junior crying, there he goes. I'd better go tend to him, and then get started on a fresh new week of chores.

Or maybe I'll chill on the floor and watch a few of my shows first. I've earned it. The last few days have been hell. I'm in good shape with my chores, so I can spare a few minutes.

Why not? Even a miserable slave like me deserves a break once in a while.

I can continue posting these if there's interest.

I love this. Thanks.

cwcobblestone
There DEFINITELY is!!!!

April 10, 2:24 a.m.

Junior said his first words today. That's the good news.

The bad news: His first words were "pee-pee." And his ****** was not amused.

Brent was; he thought it was funny as hell. That didn't help. It only irritated Anna even more — and, of course, she took it out on me, and my ass is on fire.

And, so, dear diary, as I lie here on the floor in the baby's room in the middle of the night gathering my thoughts, I can report that I had another ****ty day. I've had a lot of them lately. I wake up feeling ****ty and go from there.

I'm still ******** on the floor, and in the mornings every muscle in my body aches. I've got 3 more nights until I'm allowed to ask for beanbag privileges again. It still pisses me off how Tammy flat-out lied to Anna about telling me to come pick up dog**** from her yard; Tammy never told me to do that, but I got sentenced to a week on the hard floor anyway, because my wife will always take her friend's side over mine.

Why should Anna believe me? I'm just a slave, as she's constantly reminding me. And it's not even a matter of believing me, anyway; she probably knows Tammy's full of ****, but she seized the opportunity to punish me in front of her friend.

I married a sadist. Once upon a time, I was happy about that.

And to think there were a few days last week where my wife almost treated me like a human being. It seems so long ago.

When my masters left for work yesterday, I decided to indulge myself, and spent a rare lazy morning writing in my diary and watching TV before starting my chores. Brent Junior was good all day, allowing me to get everything finished with minimal interruptions. I've been integrating his Elmo doll into the potty training, as the articles I researched suggested. I'll say, "Elmo has to go potty," and take the doll into the bathroom, getting Junior used to the idea that "big boys like Elmo use the potty, not a diaper."

Last night I asked Anna and Brent about the issue with my chastity device, and my inability to show Junior how to pee in the toilet standing up. It was decided that Daddy would handle that part of the training. It's now my job to monitor when Brent heads to the bathroom, and if the baby is awake, I have to ask my master if he's going to pee, and, if so, whether he'd like to use the opportunity to show his *** how it's done.

Jeez, I hope Brent at least tries to aim for the damn toilet while he's training Junior. I doubt it. Pretty soon, I'll most likely be responsible for cleaning up the piss of two males in this household. I can just hear Brent telling his boy, "don't worry if you miss — pee-pee will come clean it up." Anna won't like it, but Brent's gonna do what Brent's gonna do.

This whole "standing-to-pee" dilemma has served as a bitter reminder of how much I've lost. We're talking about basic bodily functions here, normal things that have been completely cut off. When a man can't even stand up to urinate because his penis is locked in a plastic spiked cage ... well, he's not much of a man, is he?

One thing I do take pride in is the fact that Anna and Brent trust me with their ***, and that I've earned that trust. As kinky as we get, and as unconventional — some would say dysfunctional — as our household is, we're all careful to keep the inappropriate stuff away from the baby.

Still, he's going to grow up seeing things. For instance, they never give me my daily reminders in front of him, but they slap me in his presence all the time. They're constantly belittling me; I don't see that ending when Junior gets older. I'm sure he'll pick up on his parents' behavior and start treating me like ****, too. Sigh. After I took such good care of him, too. Well, at least I know that I'm being the kind of nanny Anna and Brent want me to be. That's something to hold onto. I'm doing my part in this three-way — or now, with Junior, four-way — relationship. Nobody said my job would be easy.

I tried to buoy my spirits with such thoughts as I prepared for my masters to return from work yesterday. I made eggplant parmesan for dinner, which I assume met their approval, since neither of them commented on it; usually, the only time they remark about my cooking is when they don't like something.

After supper, I was giving Brent a foot massage while Anna tried to get Junior to talk. She repeatedly pointed to the bottle and said, "ba-ba." After several tries, the baby finally pointed to the bottle and said, "pee-pee."

Brent died laughing. "That's my boy! He's already giving pee-pee orders." He lifted his foot from my hands. "You heard the boy, pee-pee — go fetch his bottle for him."

I wiped my hands on the towel and handed Junior the bottle, while Anna glowered.

"I don't think that ****'s funny," she snapped. "This is his first words, and it's not mama, or dada, or even ba-ba — it's ..." Her lip twitched, as if the two syllables tasted like **** coming out: "pee-pee."

That only made Brent laugh harder — and that only pissed off Anna even more.

"Damn it, this isn't funny." Then, she glared at me. "You think this is funny too, don't you?"

"N-no, please, no, Mistress."

"Bull****. You're just as happy as **** Junior said your name first. That's 10 extra tonight; you're lucky it's not 50 extra."

"T-thank you, Mistress." It was so unfair. Why would I be happy that the baby used a nickname I despise? As always, though, fairness didn't enter into the equation; after getting 50 strokes 2 nights in a row, I was now facing more extra punishment.

Brent thought the whole thing was hilarious.

"Hey, pee-pee; I think I hear Junior calling you to come wipe his ass," he said, causing Anna to huff.

"I don't know why you think this is so funny. Don't you know every mom wants their kid's first words to be special?"

"But pee-pee's special," Brent said with a twinkle in his eye.

"You're not even taking me seriously. Fuck you." My wife stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door.

My master looked at me and shook his head. "Damn, pee-pee. She's a firecracker, isn't she? I'm in the doghouse, so I'd sure as hell hate to be you."

"Yes, sir." I hung my head and fought back tears. He was right. It sucks being me. It sucks busting my ass and bowing and ******** all day, only to get punished time and again for **** I didn't do. It sucks not being allowed to touch my own penis. It sucks going months without an orgasm. It sucks not being able to stand up to pee. It sucks having to ***** on the floor every night, and that I consider myself lucky if I'm allowed to crash on a lousy beanbag.

Brent broke my reverie. "Listen, pee-pee, go in there and tell Anna I'm sorry."

"Y-yes, sir." Do you know how embarrassing it is to have to act as the go-between when your wife and her boyfriend are having a spat? I've done it many times, and it's deeply humiliating, let me tell you.

I knocked on the bedroom door. "Mistress?"

"What?"

I opened the door and peeked inside, where Anna sat on the bed.

"Um, Master says he's sorry."

"Tell your master if he has something to say to me, he can come in here and tell me himself."

Like a good slave, I relayed the message. Brent crossed his fingers. "Well, pee-pee, here goes. Wish me luck."

"G-good luck, sir."

He strolled into the bedroom; I stood nearby, ears pricked, although I could only hear murmurs. Then, a gasp. A moan. Another.

It didn't take long for them to make up.

I lay on the carpet for about a half hour, playing with Junior and listening to the bedroom sounds until it got to be a quarter to eight — time to put the baby to bed and get ready for my daily reminder.

We have a protocol for when Anna and Brent happen to be fucking at 8 p.m. If I'm in the room with them, I simply wait until they're finished and cleaned up before asking for my daily reminder. If I'm not in the room, if circumstances allow, I am to kneel outside their bedroom door holding the cane. When it sounds like they're finished, I'll knock on their door, and when they answer, kneel and beg for my reminder.

Well, tonight I followed the program to the letter, kneeling outside their bedroom at 8 p.m. sharp, but I still got extra punishment for being late. I must've knelt there a good half-hour before the squeals and grunts subsided.

I knocked on the door. A few seconds passed before Brent called, "come on in."

I scurried into the bedroom and fell to my knees. "Sir, may I please have my daily reminder, sir?"

Brent chuckled. "You've got some extra coming tonight, don't you? What was it, 10?"

My wife looked at the clock. "The little bitch is late again. Make it 20 extra — 20 on top of the extra 10."

Brent grimaced. "Damn, girl, you are mean." He nuzzled her neck. "And that's sexy."

Then, my master addressed me: "Hey, pee-pee, come get me cleaned up over here so I can give you your reminder."

Anna put a finger in her pussy, scooped out a glob of sperm, and dabbed it on my nose. "I'm gonna need a cleanup, too, pee-pee. Tonight's your lucky night."

"T-thank you, Mistress."

Ladies being first, I started with Anna, even though Brent had been the first to order a cleanup. I get such a thrill being close to my wife's sacred vagina, although it always seems to be laughing at me with its wide-open, well-fucked lips, the sperm of a better man seeping out for me to suck up. The taste puts me in my place; my little dick swells and the spikes bite.

Then, it was Brent's turn to be cleaned, and I had no problem avoiding a hard-on, especially when he farted in my face.

"What'd I have for lunch, pee-pee?"

I felt like an idiot as I lifted up from his crotch and sniffed. Unlike the other night, this time I didn't have the promise of an orgasm if I guessed right.

I just threw something out there: "Hamburger?"

He smacked the top of my head and made a buzzer sound. "Nnnnnnnnnggggg. Wrong. I had lasagna. Couldn't you tell?"

Anna hit his arm. "Damn it, that stinks."

"Pee-pee doesn't think so. Do you, pee-pee?"

I averted my eyes. "I-I don't know, sir."

"You think my farts stink?"

"Oh, no, sir, of course not."

My wife sneered. "You probably do like the smell of his nasty farts. You're fucking disgusting, I swear." Then, she turned to her lover. "Blister this piece of ****'s ass, and then come back here and fuck me again."

Brent smirked at me and shrugged. "Sorry, pee-pee, but how can I refuse an offer like that?"

I made it through the beating without crying out once, although by the time Brent was finished my face was soaked with tears. I knelt before him and asked if I could thank him for my instruction, and he closed one eye and thought about it for a second.

"Tell you what, pee-pee. How about a nice salad-toss while I'm fucking your mistress? That sound like fun to you?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"Get to it, then, bitch," he barked as he climbed on top of my wife.

My neck hurt after a minute of bobbing up and down at jackhammer speed; after 10 minutes the pain was unbearable. Whenever my tongue slipped out of his ass for even a second, I was greeted with a cuff across the ear. Every now and then, I'd take a quick break, even though I knew I was going to get slapped, because my neck muscles ached so badly it was worth getting clouted for a few seconds of relief.

As I struggled to keep my tongue up my master's asshole, I wondered if taking breaks on purpose like that made me a bad slave. Then, it dawned on me that I was stressing over such pitiful existential issues while, far, far above me, my masters were simply fucking, with no care whatsoever for my petty concerns. I was nothing more than an accessory; a French tickler, a pair of Ben Wa balls; something meant to enhance their pleasure. The excruciating pain I felt in my neck meant absolutely nothing to them, nor did my angst over whether or not I was serving them to the utmost of my ability.

Finally, I felt my master's asshole clench up around my tongue, and he cried out. I always feel so jealous when I watch him having an orgasm, something that obviously feels so good to him, and something he completely takes for granted. In the past half hour, he'd just cum more times than I have in more than 3 months. Must be nice. Sigh.

I cleaned my masters again, and then was dismissed to go ***** on the hallway floor outside their bedroom. I got two hours' ***** before I was awakened by their crying baby. While they snuggled softly together under the soft covers on their soft mattress, I changed their ***'s ****ty diaper.

So, here I am in the middle of the night, lying on the hard floor in the baby's room lamenting my sad-sack situation, while my wife and her lover ******* comfortably in the next room, a million miles away.

Poor little me.

I haven't counted them, but please tell me the 71,000 words are not over yet ...

omg, what a damn hot diary
Submissive Cuckold - lives for many years in a female-led marriage with a cuckold lifestyle.

Since I started these posts in the middle of the diary (I don't know why I did that), I'm going to back up and share a few posts from earlier in pee-pee's diary, and then jump ahead. It won't matter for continuity, but in case you're wondering why earlier dates are to follow, that's why. Let me know if you enjoy these, and I'll keep posting them.

c.w.



March 24, 8:23 p.m.

I was polishing my master's shoes when Anna called to check on the baby. My heart leapt when I saw the phone light up with an international number, but by the time the call was finished, my spirits were right back in the cuckold slave dumps again.

My wife and her boyfriend left for the Bahamas almost 2 weeks ago, and they've been calling to check on their *** every day. When they were originally planning the trip, they thought about bringing Junior and me along. (I was to be included because there was no way my lazy mistress and master were going to change diapers!) In the end, though, they decided they wanted it to be just a romantic trip for two.

I remember feeling so proud when my mistress and master informed me that I'd be staying home to watch Brent Junior, because it meant they trusted me — and then it hit me how pathetic I was for being glad that my wife and her boyfriend were dumping their kid off on me so they could go on a romantic getaway.

Anyway, I was joyful and nervous when the phone rang, and my hand literally trembled when I pressed the green button.

"H-hello?" The syllables caught in my throat.

Anna's voice was clipped and cold, as it usually is when she talks to me: "What are you doing?" No hello, nothing.

"Um, I was just shining Master's shoes; I finished all of yours earlier today, Mistress. I'll be done in a minute—"

She cut me off: "Where's the baby?"

"Um, he's right here in the playpen, Mistress."

"Put the phone up to his ear."

I walked across the room and told Brent Junior in my best baby-talk: "Mommy's on the phone; she loves you very much and wants to say hi." I hoped my mistress would hear me, notice my enthusiasm, and think of me as a good nanny for her *** — and then that familiar feeling of disgust washed over me when I realized I was trying to score brownie points with my wife by showing her what a great babysitter I was for her lover's *****.

I set aside my self-loathing and placed the phone next to Brent Junior's ear as my mistress had instructed. Through the receiver, I could hear her making goo-goo noises, and couldn't help but smile when the little one's face lit up. He's not such a bad baby, even if he does keep me up half the night with his crying. It's not his fault his ****** and ****** are so mean to me.

Well, I try to think that way, anyway, but to be honest, I can't help but resent the little bastard sometimes. Every time I look at him, it's just like looking at Brent. Even his name is Brent. He's a constant reminder of my pathetic station in life. And my wife and her lover have already informed me their *** will be giving me orders when he gets older. So, he'll grow up thinking of me as nothing but a servant — which is exactly what I am, I suppose.

One of the hardest things I have to deal with is making sure my resentment doesn't turn into hatred for Junior. First of all, if that ever manifested itself in a way that was noticeable to his parents, I would definitely be thrown out of the house. Secondly, and most importantly, it's just not right. So, I try to put my feelings of jealousy aside and be a good nanny for the boy. I keep telling myself none of this is his fault; he's just an innocent baby, so I need to be responsible and treat him right. I also made a promise that I would serve my wife and her lover in the manner they best see fit, and they want me to be a good nanny for their ***. So, I will do my very best — with a bitter taste in my mouth.

All these conflicting, confusing feelings ran through me as I held the phone up to Brent Junior's ear so his mom could say hi. After several minutes, I heard his ******'s deep voice replace my wife's, and he repeated the goo-goo sounds for a while before I heard him bellow: "Pee-pee! Pick up!"

I pulled the phone from Junior's ear. "Y-yes, Master?"

"Did the carburetor come yet?

Master had ordered a part for his classic 1969 Mustang, but it hadn't arrived in the mail yet. I relayed the news and he wasn't happy.

"Damn it. Call those assholes and find out what the fuck is taking so long."

"Yes, Master, I'll call them first thing Monday."

"No, pee-pee, you'll call today. Leave a message if they're closed."

"Yes, Master, I'll call as soon as I hang up, sir."

"Did you clean out the garage yet like I told you to?"

I blanched. "Um, uh, no, Master, I was planning to do that tomorrow."

"Well, you ain't gonna have time tomorrow," he snapped. "Marc and Jenny are coming over tomorrow morning to pick you up; they're gonna watch Junior while you till out their backyard; they said it's an all-day job. So, figure it out. Why the hell isn't the garage done yet?"

"I'm so sorry, Master. I had sort of a schedule worked out—"

"Well, I'm so sorry to impose on your schedule." His voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Oh, no, Master, I wasn't complaining, sir! I'll get the garage done, sir, I promise, and I won't let you down, sir; I'll do a real good job on Mister Marc and Miss Jenny's backyard, sir, and make you proud of me. And I'll have that garage spic and span, Master." I was desperately kissing ass, praying he wouldn't get mad.

He didn't. Instead, he changed the subject and added yet another item to my growing chore list: "Whatever, pee-pee; listen, you need to take the bus to the auto parts store and pick up some carb cleaner. Go in the garage; the can is on the middle shelf by the toolbox. Get that brand. That goddamn carburetor had better be here by the time I get back, or it's gonna be your ass. You got me?"

"Y-yes, Master."

He hung up.

With most of my weekend chores done, I had hoped to relax tomorrow after cleaning the garage. I guess that's off now. Just like that, I'm now going to be working at Jenny and Marc's all damned day. And I'll still have the garage to clean. On top of that, I'm facing an extra ass-whipping if the carburetor doesn't get here by the time Brent and my wife get back, although I'm failing to see how that could possibly be my fault.

Fuck. More **** to deal with.

At least I got Brent's shoes done; I knocked that out right after he hung up on me. I'm pretty much caught up on my housework, other than a few last-minute things I want to hold off on until right before they get home. So, I guess I'd better get all my relaxing done now, because the next few days are going to be a bitch.

I suppose I should count my blessings. I've been allowed to ***** on the beanbag every night since my masters have been gone — and I've avoided my daily reminders! I can't remember the last time I spent this many consecutive days with a backside that wasn't screaming with pain.

Oh, crap. It just dawned on me that maybe Brent told Marc and Jenny they could give me my daily reminder tomorrow. Nah, Brent wouldn't do that — but Anna would. I wonder if she talked to Jenny at all ... those two can cook up some evil **** for me. Damn, now I'm really starting to worry.

Ah, maybe there's nothing to be concerned about. There probably won't be too much time for anything bad, since Master said I'll be working in their backyard all day. And by "all day," Master usually means 13-14 hours.

Since Brent dropped this on me at the last minute, I've got to plan things out now. Let's see ... I'll spend the day tomorrow at Marc and Jenny's, and then Monday I've got a ton of errands to run for my masters — including now a trip to the auto parts store — and then, I guess I can clean out the garage after the errands are done, although I'll be up half the night. I'll have to use the baby monitor, because Junior would never get to ***** if I left the crib in the garage. Besides, it's too cold. Then, they're coming home Wednesday, so I'll be spending all day Tuesday getting the house ready for them ...

Goddamn it! There's so much to do. Maybe I should go ahead and knock some of the chores out tonight, so I'm not under such pressure to get it all done.

Sigh. This may be my last diary entry for a few days, because it's going to be fucking crazy. Bye for now.

March 25, 10:35 p.m.

Well, I'm completely wore out, but I've got to admit today wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. Master had told me I'd be working at Marc and Jenny's house all day, but I was actually done by about 4 in the afternoon.

Marc came by in his truck to get me a little after 9. There was just enough room for the ***** seat; the rest of the truck's cabin was filled with gardening supplies.

"You're gonna have to hop in the back, pee-pee," Marc said, gesturing to the truck bed, which was also jammed with gardening gear.

Clutching Junior's diaper bag, I found a spot next to a stack of bags of soil, and Marc took off. Every bump in the road threw me into the air, and my lower back was killing me before we'd gone a mile. Plus, it's been really chilly for late March, so I shivered the entire trip across town.

When we arrived at Marc and Jenny's house, she drifted outside to take Junior from me. Marc jerked his thumb toward his truck.

"Unpack all that **** and take it to the backyard. Come and get me when you're done."

After I'd unloaded the truck, I knocked on the back door. Through the window I could see Marc and Jenny in the living room; she was playing with the baby and he was chilling on the couch watching TV.

They never answered my knock, so I stood on the back porch and waited patiently. After about 20 minutes, Marc sauntered outside.

He suppressed a burp. "You know how to use a tiller, pee-pee?"

"Yes, sir; Master had me do his cousin's yard last year."

"Good." He waved his hand at his expansive backyard. "I want all this dug up. The whole thing. We're gonna plant the grass in a few weeks. Well, you're gonna plant it; Brent says I can borrow you for the whole project."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Marc, sir, I'll work real hard for you, sir."

"Alright, pee-pee, enough brown-nosing. Get to work. I'll be in the house watching TV if you need me."

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir."

He turned and went inside, and I got started. Luckily, Marc had rented a top-of-the-line tiller, and it cut through the soil fairly easily.

I hadn't been at it 10 minutes when Jenny called from inside: "pee-pee! Diaper!"

Sighing, I grabbed the garden hose and washed myself off, retrieved the diaper bag from Marc's truck, and again tapped on the back door. I could hear Junior crying from outside. This time, my knock was immediately answered by Jenny. When I got inside, she handed the baby to me as if a bomb had gone off.

"Here, take him," she said, her nose crinkled. "Put him in the guest bedroom and change him — and don't be throwing that diaper away in the house either; use the garbage can at the end of the driveway."

"Yes, Miss Jenny," I said as I took the baby from her arms. Diaper bag slung over my shoulder, I carried him into the guest bedroom and set him on the bed. There was **** everywhere, and he wouldn't stop crying.

As I was cleaning him, I noticed his tiny penis, and the cynical thought went through my head, "well, at least there's one person in the world whose dick isn't bigger than mine." And then another, more morose concept flashed to the surface: "His penis is free, like a male's penis is supposed to be. Yours is locked up in a plastic spiked cage. How pathetic is that?"

I pushed those thoughts out of my head and changed Junior, then walked in circles around the room bouncing him until he calmed down. Then I brought him back to Jenny, who took him from me with a wry smirk.

"Thanks, pee-pee," she said. "He's adorable, but I'm sorry — I don't change ****ty diapers."

"Of course, ma'am." I put on my fake smile.

Of course, ma'am. Miss Princess doesn't change ****ty diapers. Oh, no. That's pee-pee's job. Just hand him off to pee-pee. He's happy to change the diapers of another man's baby.

My pity party was interrupted when Jenny waved her hand under my nose. "Okay, pee-pee, back to work."

I was called to change diapers three more times, but other than that, Marc and Jenny ignored me. They left the house for a few hours; Marc told me they were going out for lunch. For a fleeting second, I had hoped he might ask me if I wanted anything to eat, but who was I kidding? I busted my ass for nearly 7 hours, and it never occurred to them that I might want to eat. The only break I got was when they let me get a ***** from the hose and take a piss behind one of the oak trees at the outer edge of their backyard.

Because Marc had rented a professional-grade tiller, and because I wasn't allowed any breaks, I got the job done a lot quicker than anyone thought. I felt a surge of pride when Marc expressed surprise at how fast I'd finished.

I sat on the back porch for nearly an hour before Marc was ready to drive us home. Jenny cooed her good-byes to Junior, and I strapped him back in the car seat. Although I had unloaded all the garden supplies from the truck earlier, and there would have been plenty of room for me to ride inside the cabin, Marc stopped me when I started to slide into the front seat next to him.

"What the hell are you doing? You're filthy, pee-pee. You ride in the back."

"Yes, sir. Sorry."

And, so, I huddled in the truck bed for the ride home, cold, hungry and exhausted.

Well, I'm gonna hit the hay early tonight. I've got a long day ahead of me tomorrow.

***

March 27, 11:42 p.m.

Junior just went down, thank goodness. He's been worse than usual lately, making my life miserable.

I don't think I've gotten 6 hours of ***** the last two nights combined, but I'm wired as hell right now. My mistress and master are coming home tomorrow. I'm beyond excited, but also weighed down by resentment, anger, guilt and self-loathing — familiar emotions for a cuckold slave.

I was way too busy to make a diary entry yesterday. After spending the day on the bus running Anna and Brent's errands, I returned home at about 7:30 and immediately got started on the garage. I kept getting interrupted by the baby monitor blasting screams from Junior's room, and I'd have to rush into the house and go change or comfort him. He was cranky from me dragging him around from store to store and bus stop to bus stop all day, and he kept waking up and wailing. So, I didn't finish cleaning the garage until 8 this morning.

I flopped on the beanbag in the upstairs hallway, and got about 2 hours of ***** before being awakened by the doorbell. I opened the door and Anna's friend Tammy stood in the doorway. Her car idled at the curb.

She smirked. "Hey, pee-pee. There's four bags of me and Jimmy's laundry in the trunk."

I hate it when Anna or Brent's friends come to the house and dump work on me like that with no warning. But all I could do was say, "yes, Miss Tammy, thank you," and act like the opportunity to do her and her boyfriend's laundry was the biggest privilege in the world.

Yes, Miss Tammy. I'd be happy to wash the **** stains out of your dickhead boyfriend's Fruit of the Looms, Miss Tammy. I'd be happy to add another chore to my fucking plate, Miss Tammy.

As soon as I removed the bags from the trunk and slammed it shut, Tammy put the car in drive and it started to crawl away.

"I'll be back in about 3 hours; have it all done by then," she called out the window before accelerating and cruising out of sight, leaving me standing curbside surrounded by four overflowing bags of dirty clothes.

Anna and Brent like pimping me out to their friends for laundry, housecleaning and other odd jobs, because it allows them to flaunt their power over me, while at the same time improving their social standing — because who wouldn't want to hang out with a couple that provides friends with free slave service?

The extra laundry Anna's friend dumped on me made my day more difficult than it should have been, and I had to scramble around to get all my chores done. But do you think my wife gives a ****? Hell, no. And I got yet another reminder of that when she called earlier today.

I was finishing the last of the housework when the phone rang. As always, she was abrupt: "Where's Brent Junior?"

"He's *****ing, Mistress. I finally got him down. He's been really bad for the last few days; he was up the whole night last night, and the night before, too."

There was a pause. "Is he sick? Does he have a fever?"

"No, Mistress, I don't think there's anything wrong. There's no fever or anything — he's just being cranky as usual."

"What do you mean, 'as usual?'" I could hear the venom in my wife's voice, so I immediately started blubbering my apology:

"Uh, um, eh, sorry, Mistress, please, Mistress, I didn't mean that how it sounded, Mistress. I just meant ... I just meant ... well, I'm sorry, I just haven't been getting any ***** lately, and I don't know what to do; I just can't keep him quiet, Mistress."

My wife huffed. "Did I call to hear you whine about not getting *****?"

The phone went dead.

I don't know why her hanging up on me like that upset me so much. You'd think I'd be used to it by now. But I cried my eyes out. I stamped my foot. Then, overwhelmed by resentment and bitterness, I did something stupid.

After I stood there bawling with the phone in my hand for probably a half-hour, my ********* eyes for some reason gravitated toward the couch, with its luxurious, downy cushions. It looked so comfortable ... and I was so fed up with all my hard work being taken for granted ... fed up with being treated like a second-class citizen ... fed up with not being even allowed to sit on the goddamn furniture in my own goddamn house.

And then, I did it. I actually sat on the couch. For the first time since we entered into this ridiculous "poly" relationship, I defied one of my mistress and master's core rules.

Well, actually, my ass only hit the cushion for a split-second before I jumped up, scared to death Anna and Brent might suddenly walk through the door. I knew that was ridiculous — their flight home didn't even leave for several hours — but logic didn't melt the ice in my stomach.

And then, as always, I got to reflecting on what a pathetic fucking wimp I am for being afraid I might get caught sitting on the couch. I'm still feeling funny about it. I know it doesn't make any sense. There's no way they'll ever know unless I tell them.

Will I?

Good question. I don't know the answer. Or maybe I do. Maybe that's why I feel this sense of dread — deep down, I know I can't keep secrets from them.

No, fuck that. I'm not going to say anything. Why should I be loyal to her after everything she's done to me? She's betrayed me hundreds of times. Thousands of times.

Anna never has a kind word to say to me anymore. What did I do to make her like that? Why does she hate me so much? It wasn't always like this. Even after Brent came into the picture, things weren't so bad at first. There were times when we'd all hang out together, kind of like friends. Of course, I was always in the subservient role, and there was never any question about my status, but my wife would sometimes joke with me, or the three of us would have conversations about various subjects.

Now? The only time Anna talks to me is if she's barking an order or humiliating me, which she loves to do, especially in front of company.

Brent is different. Don't get me wrong, he loves nothing more than embarrassing me, but he's nice to me sometimes, too. I've come to view him kind of like a bully older brother. He can be really nasty, but not always.

Anyway, it doesn't matter how Anna treats me. It doesn't matter if she never says another kind word to me for as long as we live — I'm still in love with her, and I'll always be her fool. And she knows it.

I'm starting to get that helium feeling in my belly again, thinking about my beautiful Anna coming home tomorrow. I doubt I'll get a wink of *****, but I should probably try.

March 28, 9:17 a.m.

Got a text from Mistress; they're laying over in Miami and are scheduled to land at Municipal Airport at 1. Flight #485. I'll need to hurry if I want to get there in time, so I'll just make this a quick entry. I'm glad I get to drive to the airport; taking the bus can get tiresome.

I'm so excited! I can't wait to see my mistress again!

Oh, and there's one less thing to worry about: Brent's carburetor came in the mail today. Thank goodness.

11:29 p.m.

Whew! Homecoming day was hectic, to put it nicely! I'm finally getting a chance to decompress after a whirlwind of chores, *********** and pain.

No, I didn't tell them I sat on the couch. I don't know why I'm making such a huge deal about it, but it nagged me all day. There were a few times where I almost broke down and confessed, but thankfully I was able to keep my mouth shut. I don't know how much longer I'll be able to stay quiet, though. What if they ask me? I couldn't lie to them.

Ah, that's stupid. Why would they even ask me? I don't know, maybe I look guilty. I must. I sure as hell feel guilty.

This is ridiculous. After the day I had, busting my ass to make them feel comfortable upon their return home, unpacking all their clothes and doing mountains of laundry, and then listening like a sap while they gushed about how much fun they had on their romantic getaway without me — only to get the **** beat out of me for no rea*** during my 8 o'clock daily reminder — and now I'm feeling guilty because my ass touched the damn couch for half a second while they were gone?

How pathetic. How utterly, fucking pathetic.

Ugh, I've got to clear my mind. It's been a day.

I arrived at the airport just after noon, pushing Junior in his stroller. Have you ever gone through an airport X-Ray scanner wearing a chastity device? It's nerve-wracking to say the least. My cage is made of plastic, so there's no concern about setting off a metal detector, but I know the TSA has scanners that can see what's going on underneath people's clothes, and I'm afraid a photo of me and my little cage may end up circulating among the federal agents as a joke.

After clearing security, I maneuvered the baby carriage through the crowd and made my way to the baggage area with 20 minutes to spare. I stood there eyeing the rows of empty seats, wondering if my masters would get mad if they caught me sitting down. Usually when I accompany them to a bar or restaurant they'll make me wait outside, but when I'm invited in they allow me to sit on furniture, since sitting on the floor, or even standing near the table would likely cause a scene. So, it's not like I'm never allowed to sit on furniture in public.

But with last night's couch infraction still weighing heavily on my mind, I decided to play it safe and keep standing. The last thing I wanted was to upset Anna the minute she walked off the airplane.

It's funny the things I worry about. Is there another man on earth who's afraid to sit on a fucking chair because it might piss off his wife?

My masters' plane arrived and I stood in the terminal lobby holding their ***, watching the parade of faces as they emerged from the tunnel. I spotted Anna, gorgeous even after her long trip, and seeing her for the first time in 2 weeks literally sent a shiver up my spine. Brent came into view next, gripping a leather carry-on bag. I held up Junior's hand and helped him wave to his parents.

They both smiled when they saw their ***, and Anna rushed forward to take him from me. She never glanced my way.

Brent handed me his bag. "We're gonna take Junior to the restaurant and relax, pee-pee," he said. "Wait for the luggage. When it gets here, bring it up and wait outside the restaurant."

"Yes, sir," I said in a hushed voice, hoping nobody nearby would overhear me. I watched the family I serve stroll toward the escalator and up toward the airport eatery.

It took about a half-hour for the bags to reach the carousel. Anna and Brent each had a huge suitcase, and my wife had another bag, too large to carry on the plane. They had left the stroller with me, so I had to plan out how I was going to carry everything; I strapped their bags on each shoulder, put a suitcase in each hand, and sort of nudged the stroller forward with my knee as I walked. It would've been a hell of a lot easier if I could've set one or even both of the suitcases on the stroller and pushed it, but I was afraid my wife would bitch at me if I did that.

That sums up my life perfectly: Afraid to do the most mundane things. Afraid to use the stroller to help tote their suitcases. Afraid to sit on a stupid airport chair.

I made it up to the restaurant and stood close enough to the entrance to be able see them leave, but far enough away so I wouldn't attract the staff's attention. I've learned the hard way that people get suspicious when they see a guy standing near their front door for 2 hours; I can't tell you how many times I've had to cool my heels outside a restaurant while my superiors enjoyed a leisurely meal, and all it took was one or two valet parkers to ask me what the hell I was doing to learn not to loiter too close to the entranceway.

I ended up standing there for about a half-hour before they came out. I hurried toward them, and Anna handed me a Styrofoam container.

"Put it in the fridge when we get home," she said. I was starving, and for a split-second I'd hoped she might allow me to eat her leftovers. No dice.

I repeated the process of hefting the bags onto my shoulders and positioning the stroller while Anna and Brent watched me, never once offering to help. I'm sure the thought never even entered their minds. Instead, when I'd finally gotten myself situated, they turned and started walking through the airport, Brent holding my wife's hand and carrying their *** in the crook of his other arm. I tagged along behind them, struggling to keep up with my heavy, unwieldy load.

At one point, Anna's huge bag started slipping off my shoulder, and when I tried to adjust my weight it caused the stroller to tip over, and I dropped both the suitcases. My wife and her boyfriend turned to see what the noise was, and upon noticing my dilemma, they both stopped and cocked their heads.

Anna folded her arms. "Jeez, hurry up, would you?"

Brent just chuckled and shook his head.

I was finally able to get everything in position again and continued following my superiors through the terminal. When we finally got outside, I set the bags near the curb and they kept an eye on them while I fetched the car. Upon my return, once again my wife and her lover stood by and watched while I did all the work. Once the bags were loaded, Brent took the keys and drove; Anna sat in the front passenger seat, and I shared the backseat with the baby. During the entire drive, they talked about the vacation they'd just had, never once saying a word to me.

When we got home, it was again my responsibility to carry all the bags in the house while Anna and Brent went inside to chill. I emptied the suitcases and carried their contents to the laundry room. I sighed when I took inventory of the piles of dirty clothes that I'd be washing for the next several hours.

I spent the rest of the day running around the house, trying to put a dent in the dozens of chores on my list. Like always, I kept getting interrupted to refill ****** and change diapers. Even though I've grown accustomed to this unequal way of life, it still fills me with bitterness watching my wife and her lover laying around on their asses all day while I'm killing myself to try to get everything done.

My mood didn't improve when I was carrying a clothesbasket through the living room and became instantly filled with guilt when I saw Brent's ass plop onto the couch. I still can't get my infraction out of my mind. I betrayed our relationship. I mean, it's not exactly like I picked up a prostitute and took her to a hotel room, but I've been feeling that way. We entered into this triad with set rules, and I purposely ******** one of those rules. Even if it's just sitting on a couch, it's the principle; they've got to be able to trust me. I'm trying to forgive myself, but I keep feeling like that can never happen unless I confess to my crime and accept the punishment, whatever that may be.

Then, whenever I get to thinking like this, I'll take a step back and think: What the hell is wrong with me? Has my wife brainwashed me to the point where I'm honestly feeling guilty about sitting on a goddamn couch? And then, the self-loathing and guilt kick in.

That's where my head was at as I puttered around the house doing my chores, but as 8 o'clock approached, fear became my main emotion. I had just put Junior down and was folding Mistress's panties when I glanced at the clock. 7:51. I gulped. I had been pain-free for 2 weeks, but that was about to end.

When the witching hour arrived, I shuffled into the living room, fiberglass cane in hand, feeling like a doomed man walking to the electric chair. Brent was lounging on the couch with Anna's head in his lap.

I knelt before them and looked at Brent. "Sir, may I please have my daily reminder, sir?"

He glanced at his watch and smirked. "Yeah, looks like it's about that time. It's been a while, hasn't it, pee-pee?"

I nodded. "Yes, sir, it has. Thank you, sir." I had no idea why I was thanking him, but brown-nosing like that is always a safe bet, even if I knew it wouldn't help me avoid getting an ass-blistering.

My master sat up and took the cane from my hands. "Drop 'em and grab your ankles, pee-pee," he said.

I did as I was told.

The assault began:

WHAP!!

"One, thank you, sir."

THWACK!!

"Two, thank you, sir."

The pain, as always, was excruciating.

When we got to "20, thank you, sir," Brent dropped the cane on the carpet near my head and sat back onto the couch next to his girlfriend. Blinking back the tears and ***********, I struggled upright and again knelt before the couch, my hands clasped in front of me, begging.

"Thank you, sir. May I thank you properly for my instruction, sir?"

Brent sneered and glanced at my wife, who shrugged. He rubbed his crotch. "Sure, pee-pee, why not?" He shifted his hips, allowing me access to his zipper. "Go for it."

I can't describe how utterly humiliating it is to be kneeling in front of your wife's lover and slowly, humbly sucking his dick to thank him for whipping your ass, while she sits next to him on the couch fiddling with her iPhone, oblivious to your ********. It's even worse when she's sneering down at you, telling you what a faggot you are.

When I'm thanking my master for my daily beatings, I never know if he'll want me to suck him to completion, or if he'll want to save his load for my wife. I guess tonight they must've both been tired, because after about 10 minutes of thanking him, Master tapped me on my ear and said, "that's enough, pee-pee, I'm about ready for bed. Go get the bedroom ready."

I slipped his penis back into his pants, zipped him back up, and thanked him — verbally this time — before darting upstairs to the master bedroom to turn down the bed, set out Anna's nightgown and place a cold glass of ice water on each nightstand. They drifted into the bedroom as I was switching on the lamp.

Anna threw her robe onto the floor for me to pick up and fell onto the mattress naked. "Man, it's good to be back in my own bed again. Pee-pee, get me my nightgown."

I obeyed, and then knelt at the foot of their bed.

"Um, Master ... Mistress ... uh, is it okay if I ***** on my beanbag tonight?"

Brent looked at Anna, who waved her hand. "I don't care," she said.

My master smiled down at me. "Sweet dreams, pee-pee," he said. "Listen, you need to get up early and get your chores out of the way, because you're going to the dock with me tomorrow to help me work on the boat."

"Yes, sir. Good night, sir. Good night, Mistress."

Neither of them answered me, but I didn't mind. I crept out of the bedroom, dug my diary out of the milk carton in the hall closet where I keep my paltry collection of per***al effects, and made this entry.

Now, I'm gonna call it a day, drag my little beanbag out of the closet and put it in the normal spot in the corridor outside the master bedroom door. That way, I'm right there if they should get up in the middle of the night and need me for anything.

As Master said to me earlier: Sweet dreams!

Okay, we're caught up now. I'll pick up the diary where I'd left off. The dates are all listed if you want to copy and paste them in sequence, although as I said earlier, it doesn't really matter.

c.w.


April 15, 4:14 a.m.

Dear Diary,

It hurts like hell to be exploited, ****** and ridiculed.

It also turns me on.

Sigh.

I'm operating on zero *****, and I'm sapped emotionally, physically and spiritually. Yesterday was an odyssey of shame that started when I brought my masters breakfast in bed, and Anna informed me I'd be accompanying her and Tammy to the mall.

"We're planning on doing some serious shopping," my wife announced. "Tammy says it's a pain in the ass to have to carry a bunch of bags, and I agree. That's where you come in."

"Thank you, Mistress."

"Junior's gonna spend the day with Da-da," Anna said in baby-talk to her ***, who sat on the mattress gurgling.

Brent chuckled as I set his breakfast tray in front of him. "Gonna miss you on diaper duty, pee-pee, but I guess I'll have to struggle through it."

"I-I'm sorry, Master. Please, sir, I am so sorry."

Why was I apologizing? This obviously wasn't my call; Anna had made these Saturday plans without consulting me. I sure as hell had no say in the matter, and Brent knew that. But, of course, I always apologize. It's just easier that way.

As I sank to my usual mealtime spot on my knees, Master waved me off. "Don't worry about it, pee-pee. It ain't gonna **** me. I used to change my brothers' diapers all the time." He pointed. "Hot sauce."

The lazy bastard; the bottle was right within his reach. I stood and, like a good butler/slave, gave the Tabasco bottle a few shakes onto his eggs until he grunted, "good." Then I returned to my kneeling position.

I hadn't been settled for two seconds when Anna snapped her fingers in my direction and nodded toward her coffee cup. I rushed to refill it and again dropped to my knees.

My masters alternated between eating the breakfast I'd made and playing with their ***. Mommy was tickling his belly, causing him to giggle and squeal with delight. Then, the baby made a face, followed by a high-pitched fart and the unmistakable squishy sound I had come to dread.

Anna crinkled up her nose. "Oh, jeez, take him out of here, pee-pee."

As I rushed to obey, Brent chuckled. "My *** sure ****s a lot, don't he?"

"Yes, sir."

"Just like his ********* Anna deadpanned, handing the baby off to me.

Brent was right; his *** does **** a lot, and I cannot wait until he's potty-trained. I finished changing him and brought him back into the bedroom. I had just entered the room when Brent pushed his tray away and began rubbing Anna's thigh.

"Get these trays out of here, pee-pee; the missus and I have something ... um ... private to discuss."

"Yes, sir."

Anna smiled and kissed her lover's neck before turning to me. "Keep Junior occupied; I don't want to hear him crying."

"Yes, Mistress, of course, Mistress."

She ignored me and turned to her lover, who kissed her deeply.

I carried the brat to the living room and broke out the blocks, toy trucks and stuffed *******. While I sat on the floor playing with the baby, it occurred to me that I spend far more time with him than his parents. I suppose that happens fairly often in normal marriages involving a busy couple with a nanny. But this is no normal marriage and I'm not merely a nanny; I'm a slave. Despite my patient, loving care, Junior will grow up thinking it's perfectly okay to ***** me, and I'll just have to accept it.

I did my best to shake my somber mood, but the wails and grunts coming from the bedroom weren't helping. I tried to block it out, while at the same time pricking my ears for any little sound — and then, after getting turned on by what I heard, trying to think of something non-sexual to alleviate the agony from the unrelenting spikes in my chastity cage. It's the cuckold curse, an emotional and sexual merry-go-round, painful and maddening.

After a good 45 minutes, the noises stopped, and Brent called: "pee-pee, get in here." I put the baby in the playpen and rushed to the bedroom, where Brent was alone on the bed.

He pointed to his crotch. "Cleanup."

The single-word command spurred me into action, and I slavishly sucked his and Anna's sticky juices off his dick, balls and pubes. My master pushed my head downward, indicating that he wanted his asshole licked. Resigned to my fate, I complied.

As always, I was mortified when Anna came back from the bathroom and saw my face in her lover's ass. At least this time, she didn't throw out her usual jibe about how much Brent enjoyed having me "toss his salad." Instead, she plopped onto the bed next to her lover and they started kissing.

How pathetic am I? He gets to make out with my wife, while I make out with his butthole.

After a few minutes, Anna pulled away from her boyfriend. "Baby, we can't fool around again; I've got to meet Tammy at the mall."

Brent sighed, reached around and bopped me on the back of my head. "Sorry, pee-pee, mean ol' Mistress says the fun's over."

I removed my tongue from my master's ass and thanked him for the privilege of giving him a rim job, to which he responded his usual cheery, "no problem, pee-pee," before rolling off the bed and heading to the bathroom.

"Um, M-master?"

He turned and cocked an eyebrow. "What, pee-pee?"

"Uh, sir, do you want me to go get Brent Junior, so you can show him how to go pee in the toilet like we talked about, sir?"

Brent nodded and said, "yeah, good idea," so I fetched the baby. ****** then took *** into the bathroom for some male bonding and potty training, while Anna rose from the bed.

"Those sheets need changing." She smiled at the huge wet spot and exhaled. "Seven orgasms, pee-pee. Seven. I squirted like crazy! Lord, that man can fuck."

"Yes, Mistress, thank you."

Anna's lip curled. "Thank me? What the hell are you thanking me for? You know, you get on my nerves sometimes with your goddamn brown-nosing. Just change the damn sheets and get ready; we leave in a half-hour, and if you make me wait two seconds, you'll be wearing a hot pocket to the mall, I swear to God."

"Yes, Mistress, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, you are sorry. You're a sorry piece of ****."

Brent walked out of the bathroom holding his ***. "Uh-oh, what did you do now, pee-pee?"

I wasn't sure how to answer that. All I "did" was thank my mistress for telling me how great her lover was in bed. It was a stupid thing to do in retrospect, but as I say, it usually goes better for me if I just apologize or say thank you, whether it makes sense or not. This time it backfired.

I went the diplomatic route and answered vaguely: "Um, I was getting on my mistress's nerves, sir."

Brent snickered. "Well, that's the one thing you're good at, huh, pee-pee?"

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry"

"Yeah, your mistress just said so. I heard her; she said you're a sorry piece of ****. I concur." My master smirked. "Anyway, pee-pee, you're gonna want to hit that bathroom. I think I missed a little."

Anna rolled her eyes. "Jeez, Brent — lead by example, why don't you? What are you gonna do, teach your *** how to piss all over the floor just like you?"

Brent threw his head back and laughed. "Hey, it's not my fault; it's hard to take a piss and hold a kid at the same time. Don't worry; pee-pee will clean it up."

I swallowed the lump of *********** and said, "yes, sir, thank you sir" — and as soon as the words were out of my mouth, yet another wave of self-hatred enveloped me.

Don't worry; pee-pee will clean it up. They're right. I am a sorry piece of ****. I'm the kind of sorry piece of **** who thanks his wife's lover for the privilege of cleaning his piss off the toilet seat. Don't worry; pee-pee will clean it up ...

Master handed the baby to Anna, and I watched the family I serve stroll from the master suite. I scampered into the bathroom to clean up, and, sure enough, there were yellow droplets on the seat, although not as many as usual. That must've been Brent's concession to having his kid with him; he didn't get too much piss on the toilet seat. Apparently, he was going to teach his *** that it's okay to piss everywhere, because pee-pee the house slave will come running like a little bitch to come clean it up.

In addition to the errant piss, the rest of the bathroom was a disaster area. It had been spotless before Brent used it, and he was only in there for a minute, although that was obviously plenty of time to wreak havoc. A lengthy column of unfurled toilet paper stretched across the floor like a cuckold's red carpet. A discarded towel was draped over the bathtub. Some of the contents of the whatnot drawer had been thrown onto the counter and in the sink; Brent apparently was looking for something, and of course couldn't be bothered with putting **** back in the drawer. That's pee-pee's job.

After cleaning up the master bath, I went downstairs and showered in the small basement "slave bathroom," which Anna had Brent install when we all moved in together. Of the three privies in our house, the bare "slave bathroom" is the only one I'm allowed to use. It took me only 15 minutes to get ready, but then I had to wait while my wife put the finishing touches on her makeup, which was seemingly taking hours. I felt a measure of normalcy when I realized waiting for my wife to get ready made me like almost every other married man on Earth.

Anna finally ordered me to bring her BMW to the front. I did as my mistress ordered, and then stood outside the car for another 20 minutes before she finally exited the house. I opened the door for her and slipped into the passenger seat; I'd surely be relegated to the backseat when Tammy joined us, and knowing how devious they are when they get together, there was a good chance I'd end up in the trunk.

I get nervous whenever I'm alone with my wife, and I squirmed as she pulled out of the driveway. After so many years of servitude, I have completely lost my identity as Anna's husband. The brief period where we had a normal marriage seems so long ago, like it happened to someone else. She's my mistress now. I'm her slave. For real. I got the life I wanted, and part of that includes feeling uneasy around my own wife. And usually there's good rea*** for that feeling.

Anna nosed the car onto the freeway ramp. "How's the diaper training going?"

"Um, good, Mistress. He pooped on the potty yesterday, and I've been reminding Master to take him into the bathroom to show him."

She shook her head. "I really wish he would stop pissing on the floor. It's getting on my nerves. That man is great in bed, but he is such a slob."

What was I supposed to say to that?

My wife chuckled. "I'm just glad we've got you around, pee-pee, or I think your master and I would end up ****ing each other. You know how much I hate piss on the damn toilet seat; it's gross."

"Yes, Mistress."

"That's why a three-way relationship is better than the traditional one. So many couples argue about housework; that's never an issue in our household, is it, pee-pee?"

"No, Mistress."

"Men are slobs, and women aren't cleaning up after them anymore. Not this woman, anyway."

The dashboard lit up with Tammy's phone number, and Anna pushed the button on her steering wheel that tapped into her cellphone's Bluetooth.

Tammy's voice crackled through the speaker. "Hey, girlfriend."

"Hey, what's up? You canceling?"

"No, no — Jimmy was just wondering if he could borrow pee-pee for a few hours when we're done shopping. He spilled oil all over the garage, and I figured when pee-pee's done in there, he can go ahead and clean up the dog****, and maybe take care of a couple other things around the house ... unless you need him back early."

"Oh, no, problem, girl; he can just finish his chores at home after."

Yeah, no problem, pee-pee will just stay up until 3 in the morning finishing his goddamn chores.

They chatted for a minute about clothes before hanging up. Mistress didn't speak to me the rest of the way.

Tammy and Jimmy were on the porch when we pulled into their driveway. I climbed out of the car and held the door open for my wife's friend.

Jimmy took a swig of beer and leaned back in his lawn chair. "Hey, pee-pee, I made a big mess for you in that garage. That oil's a bitch to get out — you're gonna have fun with that."

"T-thank you, sir."

He smirked. "No problem. Glad to help."

I scooted into the backseat. Tammy turned toward me.

"You gonna be our little bag bitch today, pee-pee?"

"Y-yes, ma'am, thank you."

"Good. Carrying all those bags is a drag."

Anna raised her fist. "Score one for poly marriage! It's great to have a little bitch like pee-pee around. You and Jimmy really should try to find one of your own."

"Why, are you getting tired of us borrowing pee-pee all the time?"

They both laughed as I sat there feeling like a fool. I'm used to it.

They ignored me for awhile and discussed various subjects. Tammy asked how Junior's potty-training was progressing.

My wife groaned. "It would be fine if Brent could aim for the damned toilet once in a while. He's gonna teach his *** to piss all over the floor, just like he does. I don't care if pee-pee's around to clean it up — it's fucking disgusting. And I don't want Junior learning that ****."

"Damn, girl, that sucks." Jeri turned to me. "Does your master make a big mess for you to clean up, pee-pee?"

"Um, y-yes, ma'am."

She giggled, but Anna wasn't amused.

"That **** ain't funny. Imagine if Jimmy pissed all over the floor all the time."

"He does, only we don't have pee-pee around to clean it up."

My wife shook her head. "Well, I feel sorry for you."

Tammy raised her fist. "Score another one for poly marriage. ****, girl, you're right — I'm gonna have to find me a pee-pee."

Anna pulled into the mall parking lot. I hopped out of the car and opened her door for her; Tammy managed to get out on her own.

My wife scowled at me. "I don't want you breathing down our necks, pee-pee. Stay far enough away so we don't have to look at you, but close enough to come when we call you."

"Yes, Mistress."

I followed behind them through the mall, trying not to stare at their asses. It was an impossible task. My chastity cage spikes dug into my growing erection, and I literally fell to my knees in pain at one point before recovering and scampering after my mistress and her friend.

Every time they emerged from a store with a bag, I'd rush to them and relieve them of it. After a few hours, it was getting difficult to carry all 12 bags, and I was thankful when Anna came out of Lord & Taylor and told me to take their purchases to the car.

I did as Anna ordered, and then dashed through the mall trying to find her and Tammy; I knew if I wasn't available when they wanted me, there'd probably be hell to pay. Luckily, I picked them up as they walked into a sporting goods store. I waited about 10 minutes before Anna came out and waved me over.

"Tammy just bought a basketball hoop to surprise Jimmy; you need to carry it to the car," she said, before signaling to the clerk and telling him I was authorized to take the merchandise from the store.

The hoop was heavy and unwieldy, but that was my problem. It took a half-hour to drag it to the car, and then I hurried back to the mall, scared to death I wouldn't be there when Anna wanted me. Because she likes to show off in front of her friends, I knew there was a good chance she'd impose a terrible punishment, possibly even a hot pocket for a few days, or a month added to my chastity. So, I was in a panic as I darted from store to store.

I finally found them browsing in a shoe store; I heaved a sigh of relief when I saw that neither of them held a bag, which lessened the chances they had been looking for me. I got my definitive answer when they each emerged from the store carrying bags, and I rushed to relieve them of their burden. It was a bit humiliating when they handed their purchases to me without a word as they continued their conversation, but mostly I was counting my blessings.

Anna was right; this was some "serious shopping." For several hours they strolled through the mall with tagging along a couple hundred feet behind. I couldn't help gawking at their asses, which of course caused tremendous pain. Eventually, they went into the mall's best restaurant, a Brazilian steakhouse, and looking at their asses no longer was a problem, at least for the next hour-and-a-half while I stood within sight of the entrance holding their bags. Although my arms were starting to get tired, I never even considered putting the bags down; that surely would earn me a hot pocket!

When they finally came out of the eatery, Anna called me over.

"We're going home, pee-pee. Bring the car around to the front."

I carried out her order and within a few minutes I found myself scrunched up in the backseat with their bags, bent over almost in half as I balanced the basketball hoop box on my shoulders. It was uncomfortable as hell, but I don't think my wife or her friend noticed.

We finally pulled into Tammy's driveway, and I steeled myself for a new round of ***********.

I carried Tammy's bags into the house, and she surprised her boyfriend with the basketball hoop. He was delighted, and I was ordered to start setting it up while they all visited inside. After about a half-hour, my wife drifted outside and said her good-byes. She got in her car and drove away without a word to me, and as I watched her disappear into the horizon it dawned on me that I didn't have bus fare home, which was about 15 miles away.

Before I had time to worry about how I'd be getting home, Jimmy sauntered outside to where I was putting together his hoop.

"How's it coming, pee-pee?"

"Almost done, sir."

"Well, hurry up and get started on that garage, because Tammy has a bunch of **** she wants you to do."

"Yes, sir."

Jimmy sat on his porch ******** a beer, watching me pore over the directions and struggle with matching the parts up. Every now and then, he'd offer such encouragement as, "that's the wrong part, dumbass," or "if you don't hurry the fuck up, I'm gonna call your mistress and tell her to give you a hot pocket."

I never know when one of my superiors is kidding around, so I don't take chances. I put the hoop together as fast as I could, and when it was done, Jimmy smiled. "Good job, pee-pee, now do the garage." No thank-you, no nothing. Oh well, at least he told me good job.

The oil spill was a bitch to clean, and I seethed with resentment as I struggled on my knees in the stagnant garage, scrubbing the concrete with all my might while just a few feet away in the driveway, Jimmy leisurely shot hoops with his new toy. He finally quit when the pizza man pulled up and delivered a box to their house. Apparently, it was dinnertime. Do you think they offered me a slice? Hell, no; I just kept scrubbing their garage while they chilled inside and ate their pizza.

Finally, after an hour of vigorous scrubbing, the floor came clean. I was exhausted, but knew I still had a lot of work ahead of me.

I reported to Tammy, who sipped a glass of wine as she sat on the back patio with Jimmy. She waved her hand at the backyard.

"Clean up all the dog****, pee-pee," she said. "Then, you can do the dishes and clean both bathrooms. I want those toilets scrubbed. Then, you can go home."

"Thank you, ma'am. Um, ma'am, my mistress ... didn't happen to give you my bus fare, did she?"

Tammy smacked her lips. "No, pee-pee, and I sure as hell ain't driving you home, if you're trying to hint. I'm tired."

"Oh, no, ma'am, please, I wasn't hinting. Um, I was just wondering if she ..." My voice trailed off as it hit me for the 1,000th time how little my wife thinks of me.

(continued below)

(April 15th continued)

Jimmy took a swig of beer. "Tell you what, pee-pee: if you hurry up and finish, and give me one of your famous foot massages, I'll give you a ride."

"Oh, thank you, so much, sir. That is so kind of you, sir." I truly meant it; I was already worn out, and didn't feel like humping 15 miles home, only to have to finish up my chores there.

I dashed around as fast as I could putting dog turds into a garbage bag while Tammy and Jimmy chilled on their patio watching me. At one point, Jimmy went to the sliding door and allowed their dog, a mean rottweiler named Buster into the backyard. They know I'm terrified of the dog — so of course, they almost always let him loose while I'm in their yard.

As usual, Buster ran toward me barking his head off. I turned away from the beast and tried to protect myself, but he bit me hard on the forearm before grabbing onto my sleeve with his teeth and shaking my arm back and forth while I bawled like a baby. Jimmy and Tammy sat on their patio, cracking up.

"Get him, Buster," Jimmy said, clearly proud of his dog for mauling me.

"Please get him off, please, sir, please," I wailed.

Finally, Jimmy whistled, and the dog ran to his side. "Did he get you, pee-pee?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"Let me see."

I held out my arm for him and he smirked. "Oh, that ain't ****. Quit your whining; we're going inside, pee-pee," he said, getting up from his seat and walking toward the sliding door with Tammy close behind.

"Hurry up out here," Tammy said over her shoulder.

I can't describe how humiliating and painful it was having to scramble around picking up the turds of the dog that had just bit the **** out of me. It wasn't a wound that required a hospital visit, but he did break the skin, and it **** a little. It hurt like a *** of a bitch. And they thought it was funny.

It took another 10 minutes to finish up in the backyard, then another hour or so to do the pile of dishes in the sink and scrub both bathrooms.

When I finished, I reported to Jimmy and Tammy in the living room, sinking to my knees as I've been taught by Anna.

"I-I'm all done; would you like your foot massage now, sir?"

Jimmy propped his hands behind his head. "Sure thing, pee-pee. Socks off. Go in the bedroom and get the lotion that's on the nightstand."

I spent the next 45 minutes rubbing his feet, putting my heart and soul into it, fearing he might get see fault with my foot massage and decide not to drive me home. Finally, he told me, "okay, you're done."

He yawned. "Listen, pee-pee, I know I told you I'd drive you home, but I don't feel like it. So, I guess you're **** out of luck."

Tammy giggled. "Poor pee-pee. That's a long walk, isn't it?"

Tears formed at the corners of my eyes. "Y-yes, ma'am."

"Well, I guess it sucks to be you," she said, nuzzling into her boyfriend's chest. "Lock the front door on your way out, pee-pee."

Jimmy grinned and waved. "Bye, pee-pee. Have a nice walk home."

"T-thank you, sir."

As soon as I closed the front door behind me, I started crying, and didn't stop until I made it home nearly 7 hours later.

Then, with the sigh of an overworked, underappreciated cuckold slave, I began my chores at home while Anna and Brent slept. As usual, their baby kept interrupting me with his crying, meaning I didn't finish until nearly 3 a.m. I tried to get to *****, but since I didn't get a chance to ask for beanbag privileges, that meant I had to lie on the hard floor, and I was unable to doze off. So, I did what I always do to try to get to *****, write in this diary.

This time, it didn't work. It's time to get started on my day, so I've got to close this out and start my quiet morning chores in a few minutes. I didn't get a wink of ***** after an exhausting, humiliating day. I know the next several hours are going to be a ************.

Does anyone out there feel sorry for me? I doubt it. Sigh.

That is just so wonderful and what a fantastic life pee-pee really lives. With two caring people to look after him and another small one to look after, what more could anyone want in life.

April 18, 2:38 p.m.

I'm struggling with a major dilemma, but my brain is so fried I'm going to just forget about it for the time being and sneak in a diary post while my masters are still at work, and while Junior is still napping.

Last night, we enjoyed a quiet night at home as a family. At least, it started out quiet. I gave Anna a foot massage while she and Master had their dinner in the living room and watched a movie on Netflix. Junior played on the carpet near the sofa. As usual, I was ignored.

I had my head down while rubbing my wife's feet and didn't immediately see what caused the sudden crash. When I looked up, I recoiled — Junior had knocked over the dinner tray reaching for a toy on the couch, spilling gravy all over the carpet.

Anna kicked me in the head; I don't think she meant to kick me as hard as she did, but she really knocked the **** out of me. "Hurry up and get that, pee-pee, before it stains the carpet."

Junior pointed to the mess. "pee-pee."

Brent cracked up. "That's my boy! Tell him, 'pee-pee, come clean up this mess.'"

Junior grinned at his ******, and repeated, "pee-pee," causing Brent to double over in laughter.

I dashed into the kitchen, grabbed a sponge and cleaner, and started scrubbing the gravy from the carpet while Anna made a halfhearted effort at chiding her ***.

"Now, Junior, you've got to be more careful. You ask mommy or daddy if you want something. Okay, sweetie?"

"pee-pee."

Brent was tickled to death. Anna held out for a few seconds before busting out laughing herself.

"Okay, sweetie, you can tell pee-pee if you want something." My wife looked at me. "See, pee-pee? You're part of the family, too."

"T-thank you, Mistress." I fought to hold back tears, because I knew it might piss Anna off.

Eventually they settled down and restarted their movie while I knelt on the carpet, trying to get the gravy stains out.

My scrubbing annoyed Brent, who pressed the pause button. "You think you can be a little quieter over there, pee-pee? I can't hear the damned TV."

"S-sorry, sir."

Brent pushed "play," and I tried to scrub the carpet without making any noise, which isn't easy. Finally, the stains came out, and Anna had me resume her foot massage while she cuddled with her boyfriend and their ***.

Junior started to make a face, and I panicked. "Mistress, may I go get the potty?"

"Yes, go."

I ran as fast as I could to the changing room and returned with the potty. Anna and Brent watched me as I set their *** onto the commode and he began pooping in it.

"Yay, what a good boy!" Anna and Brent gushed, and while they never thanked me — and I never expected them to — I felt a sense of pride for a job well done.

I cleaned up the potty when Junior was finished and put him to bed. Anna told her lover she was headed into the bedroom to return some emails, leaving Brent and me in the living room.

He lay on the couch channel-surfing. "Hey, pee-pee, how about one of those foot rubs?"

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir." The foot kit was already in the living room so I got started while Master settled on a Giants game.

During a pitching change, Brent leaned toward me. "Your mistress's birthday is coming up," he said in a low voice, glancing at the bedroom door. "I want to surprise her; help me think of something special."

As I rubbed his feet, I threw out a few suggestions.

"Um, sir, uh, how about one of those all-day spa treatments, sir?"

He shook his head. "No, that's too cliché. Besides, she gets all the foot massages she wants at home. Think of something else, pee-pee. And work that heel."

I applied pressure to his heel as ordered, and racked my brain.

"Um, Master ... do you think she'd like a romantic trip or something?"

"We just got back from vacation, dumbass."

I felt my cheeks get hot. "Oh ... oh, I-I'm sorry, Master. I wasn't thinking."

The bedroom door opened and our conversation ended. Anna sat on the couch and kissed her lover.

"Baby, my ***** needs refilling; do you mind if he takes a quick break?" My wife nodded at me as I toiled below them rubbing lotion into her lover's feet.

He sighed and lifted his feet from my hands. "Oh, I guess so. But I'm about ready for bed; you coming in?"

Anna nodded and turned to me. "Bring my ***** to our bedroom, pee-pee."

"Yes, Mistress." It still cuts like a dagger to hear her refer to it as "our bedroom," although of course, that's what it is.

Brent and Anna already were lounging on "their" bed when I entered "their" bedroom with "my" wife's refill.

Brent caught eye-contact with me. "You'd better order that part I talked about by tomorrow, pee-pee, or I'm gonna put a foot to your ass. You understand?"

"Y-yes, sir." I understood perfectly — he was telling me I had to come up with an idea for Anna's birthday surprise, or ...

Or, what? What punishment lies ahead if I don't come up with an idea by tomorrow?

That's the dilemma I've been struggling with. I've thought of every conceivable surprise for Anna, but every idea sucks.

So, I put it out of my mind for a while. I think my head is clearer now. I'm going to get started on my afternoon routine, so dinner and everything else will be in order when my masters get home from work. While I make the preparations, I'll ruminate on the matter, and hopefully come up with a top-notch idea that will impress my master.

If not, I'm fucked.




April 19, 2:30 a.m.

Well, there's good news and bad news.

The good news: Brent loves my idea for Anna's birthday present. So, he didn't give me extra punishment.

The bad news: I got extra punishment anyway, and now I have to lay on my stomach while writing this because my ass is blistered. My master doled out 40 vicious strokes for my daily reminder last night. Not that I did anything wrong, because I didn't. But Anna said she wanted to hear me "squeal" before Brent fucked her, and so I suffer.

Everything had been going wonderfully last night, which made her cruel whim feel even more like a betrayal. It feels like she set me up to think she could actually be nice to me, before sticking the knife in my back. It's scary how much she thoroughly enjoys crushing my spirit.

After I made my diary entry yesterday, I started getting things ready for my masters' return from work, hoping they'd be in a good mood when I told them Junior had pooped in the potty twice that day.

As I was cooking dinner, I looked out the kitchen window and watched an airplane disappear into a cloud, and that's when the idea hit me: Brent could take Anna skydiving for her birthday. She's talked about wanting to go forever, and I knew she would love the gift. I was excited about my idea, and couldn't wait to relay it to my master.

After they came home, it took a while before I was alone with Brent. He and Anna ate dinner and then she had me rub her feet while she watched the news. Brent went into the garage to tinker with his Mustang, which is his way of dealing with stress after a hard day at work. As I was giving my wife a foot massage, Junior started to go Number Two, and I was able to run and get the potty and put him on it for the third time that day.

Mistress smiled as I put a new diaper on her ***. "You're doing a really good job with him, pee-pee. Thank you."

I tried not to cry, because I knew it would perturb my wife, but inside I was weeping from the honor of having all my hard work and dedication finally being recognized — and even getting a thank-you, which, from Anna, is about as rare as it gets.

I had just finished rubbing my wife's feet when Brent strolled into the living room. "You need to straighten up the garage, pee-pee," he said.

"Yes, sir." I hopped up and started to obey his order when I saw the trail of grease marks on the carpet leading right to where my master was standing. I stopped in my tracks and my mouth fell open. Brent turned to see what I was looking at and chuckled.

"Oops, sorry about that, pee-pee. I guess you're gonna want to clean that up, too."

Anna craned her neck. "Damn it, Brent, why don't you watch where you're walking?"

He shrugged. "Don't worry, babe, pee-pee will clean it up."

I wanted to stamp my foot. I hate when he says that.

Brent then ambled over to the couch, leaving even more grease marks. "Come and get these shoes off, pee-pee, and clean 'em up."

"Y-yes, sir."

I carried out his order, and then sprayed some cleaner into the carpet and let it set while I straightened the garage. It wasn't too much of a mess; the tools he'd used were scattered on the floor, and there was a small oil spill from which black footprints sprung, leading the way to the house entrance. Luckily, by the time he made it to the kitchen the oily footprint had degenerated into just a small smudge, although there was a trail of them leading through the kitchen linoleum and onto the living room carpet.

When I finished the garage, I tackled the carpet. From experience, I knew to scrub lightly to avoid making noise, since Anna and Brent were watching TV as they lounged on the couch a few feet away from where I toiled on my hands and knees.

After their show ended, Anna went to take a shower, finally leaving me alone with Brent.

He didn't waste time; as soon as Anna left the room, he pounced. "So, pee-pee, did you come up with an idea for her birthday?"

I cleared my throat. "Um, I was thinking, sir ... Mistress has always said she wanted to go skydiving."

Brent's eyes widened. "Damn. Wow, that's perfect. Yes. We could make a whole day around it."

"Yes, sir, that's what I was thinking. I could cook you guys a real nice dinner, sir ... or you could go to a nice restaurant. Maybe get a hotel near the place where you take her skydiving. If you let me use the laptop, sir, I could look up places for you, sir."

My master thought about it for a second. "What if your mistress wants to know why you're using the laptop?" Then, he answered his own question: "Just tell her you're looking up a part for the Mustang."

I blinked. "Um ... but, sir ... I'm not supposed to lie to my mistress."

"Oh, jeez, pee-pee, quit being a fucking wimp. It's not lying to her; it's just covering for a surprise."

"Yes, sir. Uh, but ... um ... er ..."

"What, pee-pee? Out with it."

"Um, sir ... if my mistress gets mad at me for ... um, covering for the surprise, could you please see if you could stop her from ... um, giving me a hot pocket, or something really bad? Because if she gets it in her head that I lied to her, sir ..."

Brent laughed and ruffled my hair. "Don't worry, pee-pee. If she finds out, I'll put in a good word for you."

"Thank you, sir."

"Anna's gonna love that present. Good job, pee-pee." He offered me a high-five, and my chest swelled with pride as I returned it.

My master smiled. "How about grabbing us a couple brewskis, and you can watch SportsCenter with me?"

"Oh, sir, yes, sir, thank you so much, sir." I literally ran to the kitchen and felt like a real man as I grabbed my beer along with Brent's and carried them to the living room. I was taken down a peg when I realized my only option was to sit on the floor, but it was still a rare treat. I sat cross-legged near the foot of the couch while Brent kicked back, and we watched sports highlights together like old buddies.

During a commercial, Brent smirked. "Your mistress gave me a blowjob in my office while I was Skyping with a client today, pee-pee. She's a kinky little bitch, isn't she?"

I took a mousy sip of my beer, afraid to answer, but fearing he'd get mad if I didn't. "Uh ... she likes doing things like that for you, sir."

"Tell me about it." He smacked his lips. "And she does it pretty damn good, too."

I ****** a smile. "Not that I would know anything about that, sir."

Brent chuckled. "No, I guess you wouldn't, would you, pee-pee?"

Our conversation ended when Anna walked into the living room wearing a robe and a towel wrapped around her head. She sneered when she saw me sitting there nursing a beer.

"My, my, don't we look comfortable?" She took a seat on the couch next to her boyfriend. "Moving up in the world, are we, pee-pee?"

Brent laughed. "I told him he could have a beer, because he's gonna find that fucking valve, even if he has to look all night — aren't you, pee-pee?"

"Y-yes, sir, I'll find it, sir." The subterfuge made me uncomfortable, even if it was for a worthy cause.

I glanced at the clock. It was 7:54. I excused myself, fetched the cane, and at 8 p.m. knelt in front of my master and offered the instrument of pain.

"Sir, may I please have my daily reminder, sir?"

Brent and Anna exchanged glances. She licked her lips.

"Go ahead and make the little bitch squeal," she said to her lover. "Do it hard. Give him 20 extra. Then, I want you to fuck me into next week."

Anna opened her robe and started playing with her pussy while locking eyes with me. I could read her thoughts:

"Yeah, you were a good slave today. Yeah, you bowed, and scraped, and kissed our asses, and put our baby on the potty, and did everything we asked of you, quickly, respectfully, and with a smile on your face — but you're getting extra punishment anyway, because it turns me on to watch my manly boyfriend put your wimpy little ass in your wimpy little place before he fucks the **** out of me."

I dropped my drawers, bent over and grabbed my ankles, and waited like that until Brent finally got off the couch.

"Sorry, pee-pee, but Mistress wants to hear you squeal. She's such a cunt, isn't she?"

Anna cut in: "Oh, he'd better not answer that. Come on, baby, enough talking — put some blisters on the little bitch's ass."

I closed my eyes and held out until number 36, and then I finally squealed, just like my wife wanted me to. Unfortunately, it woke up the baby.

Anna frowned and glanced at her lover. "Hurry up and give him the rest so he can take care of Junior."

Brent administered the final 4 strokes before tossing the cane on the carpet. Then, he and my wife walked hand-in-hand toward the bedroom.

"You better keep him quiet, pee-pee, or you'll wear a hot pocket for a week," Anna said over her shoulder, as Brent's hand brushed her ass.

"Y-yes, Mistress."

With tears in my eyes and fire in my ass, I scurried to Junior's room. For the next half-hour, I rocked him, bounced him, and sang softly to him, while trying to block out the grunts and groans coming from his parents' room. Finally, he went to *****.

I tiptoed to my spot in the hallway outside the master bedroom and lay on the floor. Unless I have chores, that's the protocol for when Anna and Brent are fucking; that way, I'm immediately available if they call for cleanup duty, *****s or whatever else they may need.

The erotic orchestra continued for another hour, followed by silence. I lay there in the dark, every sense heightened, listening for any little sound that might indicate they wanted me for something. I longed for the call ...

Please, Mistress ... don't you want a refill? I'll fetch a nice, cold one for you, Mistress. Um, sir? Wouldn't you like your salad tossed? I'll do it real good for you, sir ... I'll lick your ass, just the way you like it, sir. I can be useful to you guys ... it's a triad, remember? I'm part of this poly relationship ... please, I know my place ... please call for me. I'm right here, ready to do anything you guys want me to. I'll do it real good for you, too, I promise. Please call for me. Please call for me ...

I held out hope for probably two hours before I realized they'd fallen a*****. For the second night in a row, I had to crash on the hard floor because I hadn't gotten the chance to ask for beanbag privileges.

I got in about an hour's ***** before Junior woke me up. I changed his diaper and broke out my diary from the hallway closet.

Writing down my thoughts is the one thing that keeps me sane. I'm so grateful my masters allow me to do it.

Well, I guess this journaling has done its job, because I'm finally ready to get back to *****. Good night.

April 27, 1:23 p.m.

Dear diary,

I don't know how much more I can take.

I put my heart and soul into serving Anna and Brent, and do everything humanly possible to make their lives comfortable. And in return for my slavish devotion, what do I get? I get ****, that's what I get. They make fun of me. They belittle me. They use me to get a laugh out of their friends. And I'm fucking sick of it.

Every night, no matter what good things I've done, no matter how hard I've worked, no matter how far I've bent over backward to make them happy, I know when 8 o'clock comes I'm going to get at least 20 strokes with that horrible fiberglass cane, just to remind me that I'm only a slave. It's called a daily reminder for a rea***. My entire backside from my waist to my knees is a mass of welts and bruises. Sitting comfortably is a luxury for other people; my wife wants me constantly in pain to remind me of my lowly position.

It works. When that's added to all the other daily ********* that hammer home just how far I've sunk, it can be overwhelming. And after a day like yesterday ... well, it's all I can do to fight off the voices telling me to end it all.

Forgive me for my mood. On top of feeling down emotionally and spiritually, I also feel like **** physically. I'm usually able to hold it together, but everything fell apart last night after dinner.

I'd just spent one of the most humiliating days of my life on Brent's boat, and then whipped up a "surf & turf" dinner for my masters after we got home, only to have Anna bitch at me and add a month to my chastity and 20 extra cane stokes because she had to use the bottled shrimp sauce. She knew damn well I hadn't had time to marinate the homemade sauce because I'd been out on the water with them all day, but it didn't matter. She doesn't care. She just likes to inflict pain.

After I served dinner, my masters gave me a few minutes to eat in the kitchen, and I just lost it. As I opened a can of ****ty store-brand chicken noodle soup, it dawned on me that I'd just prepared a delicious meal I wasn't allowed to eat, and that symbolized all the bull**** I have to put up with in my pathetic life. I started crying my eyes out, and I've been in a funk ever since.

Yesterday was a long, horrible day, so let me back up and start at the beginning. Brent had been itching to get his boat on the water ever since he and I pulled it out of dry dock a few weeks ago, so when the weatherman called for a unseasonably hot weekend with temperatures in the low 80s, Brent decided it was time for a Saturday excursion on the vessel christened "The Forty-Niner" after his and Anna's favorite football team.

Because I'm never consulted about their plans, I didn't find out until Saturday morning that I was coming along to take care of Junior.

"I want him to get used to being on the water, but I'm planning on having fun, and I ain't changing no diapers," Brent said as I served breakfast in bed.

Anna rolled her eyes. "Oh, god, does that mean I have to look at pee-pee in a bathing suit?"

Brent chuckled. "We should make him wear that Speedo again; the one he wore for the pool party that pressed against his fat rolls."

"Ugh. Come on, Brent, I'm about to eat breakfast."

I stood there with my stupid fake slave smile plastered on my face while my wife ripped me to shreds.

That morning, I also found out that we wouldn't be alone. Brent and Anna were hooking up with Marc and Jenny, who also owned a boat, and two of their friends, another boat-owning couple. I wasn't happy about that news, since it's always stressful and awkward when we meet new people who aren't aware of our BDSM relationship.

Brent rattled off a list of things I had to pack, and he relaxed with my wife while I got everything ready for the day's adventure. By 10 a.m. everything was ready and we hit the road. Master drove, Anna rode shotgun while I sat in the backseat with Junior in his car seat.

After I unpacked the car and loaded the cooler, diaper bag and other provisions onto the boat, we shoved off onto Lake Benning, a huge body of water in the southern part of our state. The weather was gorgeous, and it promised to be a great outing — until the baby started.

He was clearly afraid of being on the water, and it was all Anna could do to calm him. They almost turned around to go home, but Junior eventually stopped screaming in terror, although he obviously wasn't in a good mood. That didn't bode well for me, since I knew it would be my job to keep him as happy as possible so my masters could party in peace.

I sat below with the baby while Brent navigated the boat through the water, his girlfriend in the seat next to him. I felt the boat glide to a halt, and then my master called for me.

I brought the baby out to the deck. "Yes, sir?"

"You need to pull out the raft, pee-pee, and tie it to the side of the boat."

"Yes, sir."

I handed Junior to his mommy and fetched the raft from the hold. Marc had anchored his boat next to Brent's, while the other couple was adjacent to Brent's. After inflating the raft, I bent over the boat to tie it to the ring.

As I was doubled over like that, I felt my wife's foot on my butt — and then she shoved it forward, causing me to tumble over the side and into water with a splash.

"Oh, please, please, I can't swim, please, somebody help me," I gurgled as I flailed my arms back and forth, swallowing water and trying to stay afloat. I could hear Junior laughing his little head off; apparently, he thought my plight was hilarious.

Through my panic, I glanced at the other two boats. Marc and Jenny were also cracking up, but the other couple looked a bit shocked.

Brent sat there laughing, allowing me to flounder in the water for at least a minute before finally throwing me a lifebuoy and pulling me aboard.

I lay on the deck sputtering and trying to catch my breath. Anna giggled.

"Sorry about that, pee-pee; I just couldn't resist. Your fat ass looked so tempting. And Junior loved it, so it was worth it."

"Y-yes, Mistress, thank you, Mistress." '

Damn her! She knows I'm terrified of the water and can't swim. All this to get a laugh out of her friends. Do I need any more proof that she doesn't love me?

They allowed me to lay there recovering for a few minutes until Anna suddenly crinkled her nose.

"Ugh. Break time's over, pee-pee — you've got diaper duty."

From the other boat, Jenny cupped her hands and called out: "Diaaaaapppper duuuutttty!"

Anna laughed and handed me her ***, and I went below to change him.

The three boats were anchored side-by-side, and each had its own raft attached aft, allowing one to walk between vessels. Marc also inflated a huge raft with three spaces to lay, and the ladies relaxed on it and worked on their tans while the guys chilled on the backs of their respective boats ******** beer. I sat on the deck playing with Junior, and whenever someone wanted a refill, they'd just call out "pee-pee," and I'd come running.

I had to navigate the connected rafts to get to the other boats and to the ladies' larger raft, which scared the **** out of me because they were inflatable and pliant, and every step felt like I was going to tumble back into the water. At first, the other couple, Tom and Sheila, were reluctant to give me orders, but after a few ****** they were barking out demands like everyone else, and hardly a minute went by where I wasn't called to fetch a beer or wine cooler.

It was absurd to make me climb over the rafts like that, since the coolers were within a few feet of everyone's reach, but I guess when you have a slave at your disposal, you're allowed to be ridiculously lazy.

I'd just served Anna her third wine cooler when, as I turned to tiptoe onto the adjoining raft, I again felt her petite foot on my ass an instant before she shoved me back into the water.

Again, I flailed around and begged for help, while everyone, including Junior, died laughing. The adults sipped their ****** and watched me struggle for several minutes with amused looks on their faces before Brent finally threw me the ring.

They were getting *****, and the die was now cast. My wife knocked me into the water seven times, and every episode horrified me, and delighted everyone else to no end. By the time the sun started to go down and my superiors said their good-byes, I sat on the deck feeling all alone, fighting back tears. My throat and lungs hurt from swallowing so much water. I was a waterlogged, demoralized mess.

Brent drove the boat back to the dock and I was ordered to unload everything and put it in the car. I can't tell you how angry I felt doing all the work while they stood by and watched. That's always how things are in our relationship, but it's especially grating when I've been put through the wringer like I'd just been. I wanted to scream "LOAD YOUR OWN GODDAMN CAR." Instead, I complied.

I didn't get a second to relax when we got home because Anna and Brent said they were hungry. My wife wanted surf & turf, so with an exhausted sigh, I whipped up steaks and shrimp. They ate in the living room while I knelt on my mealtime spot on the carpet.

Anna picked up the bottle of shrimp sauce and frowned. "What the hell is this, pee-pee?"

"Um, I'm so sorry, Mistress, um, I didn't have time to—"

"Didn't have time, my ass. That's another month."

"Y-yes, Mistress, t-thank you, Mistress."

Brent chuckled. "Damn, pee-pee, another month. That must really suck."

"Y-yes, sir."

"I imagine. Anyway, I'll take a few more pieces of shrimp."

Nothing out of the ordinary happened the rest of the meal. After I cleaned up the dishes, I had my sad little dinner of no-name chicken noodle soup. I don't know why it hit me so hard, but that can of salty, watery soup represented everything that was wrong with my life. I was crying so much I could hardly eat.

Then, I noticed it was 7:53, and the tears flowed faster. But I knew I had to steel myself, so I managed to stop crying, and with a stiff upper lip, I retrieved the cane and knelt before my master.

"Um, sir, may I please have my daily reminder, sir?"

Brent burped. "Sure thing, pee-pee. Let me go take a piss first."

"Um, sir, would you like to bring Junior in there for potty-training?"

"Go get him."

When Brent was finished, I hurried into the bathroom to clean up. To my astonishment, the toilet seat was clean. I figured Anna must've had a serious talk with him about pissing everywhere in front of their ***.

I put the baby to bed, returned to the living room and reported to my masters.

Brent yawned. "Assume the position, pee-pee."

I dropped my pants, bent over and grabbed my ankles, and from my upside-down position, I saw Anna sneer. "Give the creep an extra 20 for making me use that watered-down slop instead of my normal shrimp sauce."

Brent chuckled. "Sorry, pee-pee, but your wife is a spoiled brat. And what Mistress wants Mistress gets, right?"

"Y-yes, sir, thank you, sir."

Then, it started, and I squeezed my eyes shut and wished myself away. I endured the 40 lashes without screaming once. After a day like I had, that was the only excuse I could dredge up to feel any semblance of pride.

When my master finished flogging me, he threw the cane down, and I again knelt before him. "C-can I thank you properly for my instruction, sir?"

He shrugged. "Sure thing, pee-pee, I'll take a quick blowjob."

I swallowed my pride and swallowed his cock. Anna sat next to him on the couch, and they discussed their day on the water like I wasn't even there. Eventually, Brent cuffed my ear.

"That's enough, pee-pee. Mistress and I are gonna take this party to the bedroom. Go get everything ready."

I did as I was ordered, and then knelt on the bedroom floor to wait for them. As they entered the room, Anna tossed her t-shirt onto the floor and kicked off her shorts and panties.

"Get out of here, pee-pee, we want to be alone tonight," she said.

"Yes, Mistress. Um ... may I please have beanbag privileges, Mistress?"

Anna scoffed. "Are you kidding me? After serving me that slop?! No, pee-pee, you cannot have beanbag privileges. I can't fucking believe you'd even have the balls to ask. I should give you another month for that."

Brent smirked. "If I were you, pee-pee, I'd get the hell out of here before Mistress gets even more pissed off, and you won't be cumming until next Christmas."

"Y-yes, sir."

And so, head down, I trudged from the presence of my masters and lay on the hard floor in the hallway outside their bedroom. I closed my eyes and listened to them fuck, cursing the day I asked my wife to dominate me ...

Absolutely wonderful. Please promise us all you'll never EVER stop writing ....

chiappeviola
Thank you.

May 3, 2:39 p.m.

Dear diary,

It's been a couple days since I've written, but I've been on my ass with a massive cold. I'm finally feeling well enough to make an entry.

Actually "well enough" doesn't begin to describe my mood right now; "ecstatic" is more like it. A few days ago, I was in the dumps and ready to call it quits on this unequal marriage. I went through hell for a couple days with the cold, and I'm still feeling a little rundown, but today my spirits are soaring, and I couldn't be more in love with my mistress. She left no doubt that she cares for me, even if she does see me as her servant, and sunbeams are lighting up my world again.

I sure wasn't in this kind of mood when I first got sick the other day. I'm pretty sure my nightmare on the boat was to blame; Anna got ***** and kept knocking me into the lake, knowing I can't swim, and I swallowed a lot of water. The next day wasn't so bad, but the following morning I woke up shivering and coughing like crazy.

Every joint in my body ached, and my temples throbbed as I struggled through my weekday morning preparation. I tried to cough as quietly as possible, fearing I'd disturb Anna. As shitty as I felt, the last thing I needed was a hot pocket or extra strokes during my daily reminder for waking her up early.

When they awoke, I served their coffee in bed, trying unsuccessfully to keep from shivering.

Anna frowned. "What the hell are you shaking for?"

"I-I'm sorry, Mistress, I just—" I began coughing uncontrollably.

My wife pouted. "Aw, doesn't pee-pee feel good?"

"N-no, Mistress."

"Well, too bad. I'm hungry. Go wrap a couple towels around your face so you don't breathe on everything, and put on some rubber gloves. Hurry up." She snapped her fingers and with tears in my eyes, I rushed off to do her bidding.

I felt like dogshit as I prepared their meal, fighting the urge to puke, both from my illness and the unfairness of it all. After serving breakfast, I knelt near the bed, and they ignored me while they ate. Everything was perfectly routine except for the two towels that were wrapped around my face, making it almost impossible to breathe, which triggered even more coughing.

Anna threw up her hands. "Jeez, pee-pee, what the hell's wrong with you?"

"I-I'm so sorry, Mistress, but it's a pretty bad cold," I said through the thick towels. "I think ... I ... uh, I swallowed a lot of water the other day—"

My wife rolled her eyes. "Oh, stop whining. We weren't gonna let you drown. I was just having fun. You'll be fine."

"Y-yes, Mistress."

Brent chuckled. "Junior sure thought it was funny. You cheered him right up."

"Y-yes, sir. Do you me to check to see if he's awake yet?"

My wife shook her head. "No, you need to stay away from him until you get rid of whatever you've got."

"B-but, Mistress ... who's going to take care of him while you're at work?"

"I'm taking the day off — and so are you, pee-pee. You're in bad shape; you need to go lay down."

Tears formed in my eyes at my wife's unusual display of compassion.

"T-thank you so much, Mistress."

She smiled. "We need to keep you healthy, pee-pee. In fact, you know what? Why don't you go lay down in the guest bedroom?"

"Um ... you mean on ... on the bed, Mistress?"

"Sure, on the bed. Just because Mistress is mean to you sometimes doesn't mean you're not part of the family, pee-pee. You're really sick, so we'll bend our little no-furniture rule for the time being, okay?"

The tears flowed freely now, and I tried to peep out a "thank-you" without gushing too much, because I know my wife hates it.

Brent pointed to his coffee cup. "Hey, pee-pee, before you go lay down, how about a refill?"

Anna snickered. "You're so mean." But she didn't rescind her lover's order, so I humbly refilled his coffee cup before standing before the reclining couple, the towels still wrapped around my face.

My wife waved her hand. "You can go. Rest up, pee-pee. Get better."

"T-thank you so much, Mistress. I already laid out your clothes earlier, so that's done. I'm so sorry I'm sick. I just—"

"Don't worry about it," she said. "Go. Rest."

I dragged myself to the guest room and stood over the bed for several seconds, paralyzed, trying to recall the last time I'd slept on an actual mattress. It had been years, and when I finally plopped down, a long groan of pleasure escaped my throat.

My head was full of cotton as I curled up on the bed, shivering, coughing and crying tears of happiness.

She does love me! She does!! Sure, she likes to joke around, and she sometimes takes it too far, like she did on the boat the other day — but she loves me! This proves it! She's letting me ***** on the guest bed because I'm sick, and she wants me to get better. I love my mistress so much! I love my master, too, because that makes Mistress happy. Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you ...

I zonked out, but the ******* only lasted a few minutes before my wife's voice woke me up.

"Pee-pee, come here for a second."

I fell out of bed and wrapped the towels around my face before stumbling into the bedroom, where Anna stood frowning.

"Listen, I'm sorry, pee-pee, I know I said you could relax, but your master just used the bathroom and..." She sighed. "He's such a slob, and I need to go. Hurry and clean it up, and then you can go back to *****."

"Of course, Mistress, thank you."

As if on automatic pilot, I wiped the yellow droplets off the toilet seat, cleaned it with disinfectant, and then reported back to my wife.

"Will there be anything else, Mistress?"

"No, pee-pee, thank you. Go on back to bed."

I was thrilled that she'd thanked me, and the thought went through my head, "maybe I should get sick more often."

But this was nothing to play with. I felt raw from my waist up from the constant coughing, and drifted in and out of consciousness, to the point where it was difficult to tell what was real, and what was a dream ...

The door creaks open and there she is, light from above shining on her face, giving it an angelic glow ... she offers a bottle of something and a spoon, and tells me in a soft voice to ***** up ... She puts the spoon to my lips and I sip ... it's medicine, and it sends me further spiraling down a black hole, a place where I'm numb from all pain, feeling nothing except the love that threatens to make my heart explode ...

I opened my eyes and tried to focus. Was that a dream? I glanced on my nightstand and saw a bottle of medicine and a spoon. It was real! My wife actually tended to me!

As I'd done the night earlier, I started crying my eyes out, but this time they were tears of joy. Finally, I fell a***** again.

I must've slept several hours, because when I was awakened by my master calling me from the living room, it was dark outside. I struggled out of bed and wrapped the towels around my face. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was 8:43. Initially, I panicked because it was past 8 o'clock, but then realized Anna had waived my daily reminder and allowed me to crash in the guest room.

Brent and Anna were chilling in the living room watching TV.

"Um, sir, did you call, sir?"

Brent looked up. "Yeah, listen, I know you're sick, but I've got a huge meeting tomorrow; you think you can put a quick shine on my shoes, and make sure my black Armani suit is ready?"

I sniffled. "Y-yes, sir."

Anna smiled. "You're such a good slave, pee-pee. I'm so glad you're our slave."

Most people would've taken offense to that "compliment," but it made my heart soar. "T-thank you so much ... I'm glad you're my mistress and master."

Brent sucked his teeth. "One big happy family. Just put the suit and shoes in the hall when you're done."

"T-thank you, sir."

I was so thrilled at being treated like one of the family, I must've given Brent's wingtips the greatest polish job any pair of shoes ever got. When I was finished, they positively gleamed.

Then, I crawled back into the guest bed and closed my eyes. I didn't wake up for nearly two days. This morning, I told my masters I was pretty much better, and Anna heaved a sigh.

"Thank god. I'll die if I have to change another diaper."

"I-I'm so sorry you had to do that, Mistress," I said.

She smiled. "It's okay, pee-pee."

Brent handed me his empty coffee cup. "Yep, it's good to have you back, pee-pee. Fill that up for me, would you?"

"Yes, sir," I said, and then followed his order with a song in my heart. No coffee cup was ever poured and served more enthusiastically and submissively.

They left for work, and I got caught up on the many chores that awaited me. Since I'd been out of commission for a few days, everything piled up. I wasn't surprised; there was no way my masters were going to clean the house!

And now, here I am, watching Junior while my masters are at work. The house is already clean, and soon I'll start making their dinner. It's funny how things can change so drastically. The other day I was ready to call it quits. Today, I'm the happiest cuckold slave in the whole world.

May 6, 1:44 a.m.

Dear diary,

The last few days have been a blur. So much has changed, I don't know where to start. My situation has drastically improved, and, like a trench war veteran withdrawing from the horrors of the Western Front, I'm still trying to get used to this new, less painful normal.

Everything changed a few nights ago. After I'd served dinner and settled to my spot on my knees, my masters finally had "the talk" with me about how they want our household to develop as Junior gets older.

"He's going to be wandering out of his bedroom, and he doesn't need to see you ******** on floor in the hallway," Anna said. "So, as soon as he's potty trained, you can take your little beanbag down to the basement. You can have that room next to the washer and dryer."

I couldn't stop the tears. "Oh, my God ... Oh, Mistress, thank you so much, Mistress."

My gratitude was sincere. Even though the utility room is little more than a cubbyhole, as soon as Junior is potty trained it'll be my own room, something I haven't had in years.

As I knelt there listening to their instructions, things got better beyond my wildest dreams.

Anna took a bite of the roast I'd made and set down her fork. "Another thing, pee-pee: I think we're at a point in your training where you don't need daily reminders anymore. Brent and I have been talking about it, and now that Junior is getting a little older, we want to ease off on the daily whippings and some other stuff."

I could scarcely process what I was hearing. No more daily reminders? Could this possibly be true?

More tears poured out of my eyes, streaking my cheeks as I tried to find the proper words. "T-thank you," was all I was able to croak.

Brent chuckled. "And we decided after you move into the basement, you won't have to ask for beanbag privileges; you can just ***** on it every night."

My chest heaved. "Oh, sir, t-thank you so much."

Anna scowled. "We're giving you a lot of trust, pee-pee; don't let me catch you slacking off now, or instead of daily reminders, you'll be getting daily hot pockets. You hear?"

"Of course, Mistress, I promise, I won't let you down."

My wife waved her hand. "A few more things. From now on, you need to stand at attention when we eat; kneeling is a little much now that Junior's getting older."

"Yes, Mistress."

Anna looked me up and down. "Basically, we want you to start acting more like a butler, not a slave. We don't want Junior growing up in a dysfunctional household."

Brent sucked his teeth. "Well, hold up, now. I'm gonna still need you to act like a slave in the bedroom, though, pee-pee. I don't know how I'd ever get along without that silver tongue of yours on my booty-hole."

Anna rolled her eyes my way. "Your master is such a disgusting pig, isn't he, pee-pee?"

I lowered my eyes. "Um ... I don't know, Mistress."

"Well, I know," she said. "We're lucky we've got you around, pee-pee, because there is no way I'm going anywhere near that smelly ass."

"Aw, don't be cruel." Brent took a sip of his beer. "Pee-pee likes the way my ass smells, don't you, pee-pee?"

I gulped. "Y-yes, sir," I lied. "Your ... your ass ... smells good, sir."

He raised an eyebrow. "Only good? We tell you no more daily reminders, and you insult me like that, by saying my ass only smells good?"

Icy fear shot through me. "Oh, no, sir, please, I would never insult you, sir ... I love the way your ass smells, sir. It's so manly, and it smells so strong, and it shows how masculine you are, sir, please, I wouldn't disrespect you, sir, I love to smell your ass, please, sir, please ..."

As the degrading words spilled out of me, my wife watched from the dining room table, her face contorted in a smirk, as if she thought I was the most pathetic piece of **** on earth, while Brent sat next to her chuckling.

"It's okay, pee-pee, I know you like how my ass smells," he said. "Next time, use better adjectives."

"Y-yes, sir, thank you, sir."

Anna yawned. "Go see if Junior's up from his nap. Then, you need to get started on my shoes; I want them all polished by tomorrow."

"Yes, Mistress."

The baby was awake and dry, so I brought him to his parents, who had migrated to the living room. While the family played on the couch, I scurried around cleaning up the dinner dishes. When I was finished, I reported to my masters.

I stood there for a few minutes before my wife finally acknowledged me. "What, pee-pee?"

"Um, Mistress, I'm finished with the dishes."

She shrugged. "What do you want, a cookie?"

Brent guffawed.

"Oh, no, Mistress, I was just seeing if you needed anything before I get started on your shoes, Mistress."

"If I'd have needed anything, I'd have called for you, pee-pee," she said in a snotty tone.

"Of course, Mistress, I'm sorry, Mistress."

"Shoes. Go do my shoes."

"Yes, Mistress, thank you." I dashed out of the bedroom, lest I annoy her further.

I sure didn't want to screw things up; not after the news I'd just gotten. No more daily reminders — which meant no longer having to thank Brent for my whippings by giving him those humiliating blowjobs! My own room! No more kneeling during dinner! Beanbag privileges every night!

I hummed as I polished my wife's shoe collection, contemplating where to put my beanbag in my new bedroom. The space is only about 5 x 7, so there aren't a lot of options. I initially thought of the south wall, but there are pipes running along it, and I'd probably end up bumping my head on them. So, the north wall it is.

I'm hoping my masters will allow me to hang pictures in my room. I'll ask for photos of both Brent and Anna; I only want hers, but I know if I asked for photos of just my wife, Brent would veto it. I'm going to wait until I'm actually moved into my new room, and then ask for permission when they seem to be in a good mood. Maybe they'll even let me hang up pages from old magazines they don't want, or something to make it more decorative.

Since the evening when my masters broke this life-changing news, I've been going down to the basement cubbyhole and just staring at it. You don't know how thrilled I am to be getting a room of my own, after years of ******** on the floor.

Well, I'm tired, diary, so I'll sign off now. I'm the happiest cuckold slave in the whole world!

May 7, 4:23 a.m.

Dear diary,

When will I ever learn? Nothing positive ever happens to me without 100 bricks falling on my head.

I should've known things were too good to be true. Less than 24 hours after my masters informed me of welcome changes to my routine, they dropped a bomb, and the joy was sucked right out of me. I'm back to being a deflated, frightened little slave — just how my wife likes it.

Anna broke the bad news while I administered her post-dinner foot massage.

"It's not easy training you, pee-pee," she said as I rubbed lotion into her heel. "Not the way I want you trained. I want absolute devotion, pee-pee. Down to your soul. I want you focused every waking moment on serving Brent, Junior and me, and now that you're not getting your daily reminders, I'm concerned you're going to develop bad habits."

"Oh, Mistress, no, Mistress, I promise I'll work as hard as I can to serve you; I'll do whatever—"

Anna pulled back the foot I was massaging and kicked me in the forehead. "Shut the fuck up, pee-pee."

"Y-yes, Mistress." My head throbbed.

She returned her foot to the ottoman and I continued her massage. She sneered. "As I said, without getting your ass whipped every day, I'm afraid you're going to develop bad habits — like interrupting your mistress when she's talking."

"Sorry, Mistress."

"Yeah, you are sorry. Anyway, Brent and I were talking, and I think we have a solution."

Brent shook his head. "I don't think you're gonna like this one, pee-pee."

I gulped. The gleam in his eye told me he wasn't joking.

Anna propped her hands behind her head. "We need to make sure you're reminded every day of who you are. So, we're gonna have you branded."

A cold chill ran through me. "B-branded, Mistress?"

"Yes, pee-pee; branded."

Brent chuckled. "Wait till you hear where you're gonna get branded."

Anna leaned over and kissed his ear. "Go ahead and tell him, baby."

My master looked me in the eye. "Well, I hate to break it to you, but you're actually getting two brands: one on your butt-cheek, and the other one's going on your pee-pee, pee-pee."

I blanched. "On my ... on my ..."

"On your ugly, little excuse for a penis," Anna finished the sentence.

Brent held up his finger. "But wait — there's more."

Anna laughed. "Yes, there is. I think we saved the best for last. You want to tell him?"

My master winced. "No, I don't have the heart to. You tell him, baby."

My wife's lip curled. "If we can find someone to do it, we're gonna have you castrated."

Tears filled my eyes. "Oh, please, Mistress, please. I work hard for you, Mistress. I ... I've done everything you wanted. I've given up my whole life for you. Please—"

SLLLAAAAAPPP!!! Anna's backhand made me see stars.

"Little faggot, don't tell me how hard you work for me." She hit me again. "You think I give a ****? You're a slave, pee-pee. One day without a daily reminder and you already forgot that."

I couldn't stop crying. "I-I'm so sorry, Mistress, please ... it's just ... it's just ... please don't do that to me. I beg you."

"You seem to think you own your body," she said. "You don't. You're a slave. And taking your balls would make sure you never forget it."

Brent sat forward. "I actually stuck up for you, pee-pee. I don't think we should do it. First of all, we'd probably have to go to Mexico, or Vietnam some goddamn-where, because you can't exactly go on Yelp and find a castrator. It would probably cost a ****load of money, too; and, if you get some fly-by-night underground surgeon in Bangkok, they might fuck it up and you end up useless to us. But mainly, I say you wouldn't be as good a slave if you lost your balls, because you wouldn't be horny anymore."

I knew my master's line of thinking was my only chance of keeping my balls, but I had to be tactful.

"Um, sir, I think you're right, although I would work hard to be a good slave no matter what," I said.

"You're goddamn right you will." Anna snarled. "You'll be a good slave, or I'll have Brent whip the skin off you. Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?"

I started crying again. I didn't know what I did wrong to make her go off on me like that, so I just started apologizing. "Please, Mistress, I'm sorry, I really want to be a good slave for you and not complain, but ..."

"But what?" Anna's eyes flashed. "It's not like you need those useless things anyway. Testicles are meant to make sperm; what good does that do you? You don't make sperm; you make slime, and that's only a few times a year. So, what difference does it make whether you have balls or not?"

"I-I don't know, Mistress ... it's just that ... well, they're my ... they're part of my body."

"You mean my body." My wife shook her head. "You just don't learn, do you? That's why you needed to be reminded every day. You don't own your body, pee-pee. You don't own your thoughts. You don't own anything. You're a slave; lower than a piece of ******* She spit in my eye, and it trickled down my face.

"T-thank you, Mistress."

As I absorbed the latest ***********, Junior woke up crying, and I felt saved by the bell. His diaper was full, so I changed him before bringing him to his parents. I was dismissed to do my chores while the family relaxed in the living room. They ignored me as I scampered back and forth through the house, cleaning, scrubbing and trying to swallow my resentment and apprehension.

Why? WHY? Why is she doing this to me? I've given up everything for her and she keeps taking, taking, taking. How much more can I put up with? I love her so much; she's so beautiful. I want to please her ... I want to give up everything for her ... including ... my ... balls? My BALLS? Oh, God, why? And look at my masters, just a few minutes after giving me this terrible news, they're in there playing with their baby like everything's as normal as apple pie. They're probably not even thinking about my balls getting cut off; it's just a whim for them ... a lark ... something for them to brag about to their friends. I'll probably have to show everyone my empty nut-sack at parties ...

Although my impending castration dominated most of my thoughts, every now and then I'd remember what else I had in store: a painful branding on my ass and penis. I'm sure I'll pass out from the pain when that awful day comes. And I'll be marked forever. I've been trying not to think about it, but it's impossible.

Every chore I did last night while my superiors relaxed in the living room fueled my bitterness at the unfairness of it all. As I ironed Brent's pants for work, I thought of how his balls would look pressing up against the crotch as he sat in his office chair — and then, with a whimper, I wallowed in the fact that soon I wouldn't have a bulge beneath my pants. When I went into the bedroom and screwed the top back onto Anna's perfume bottle, I thought about how she wore the scent for her lover — who gets to keep his testicles. Cleaning the stove made me think of fire, which reminded me that I was soon going to be branded, and would endure unimaginable pain.

After I put the baby to bed and prepared the master bedroom, my wife provided a ray of hope.

She strutted into the bedroom, unclasped her bra and tossed it on the floor. "Your master and I have been talking, pee-pee, and I think he may be right about your service going down if we castrate you. After all, this whole mistress/slave thing was your idea, wasn't it?"

That was only partially true. I'd certainly asked her to dominate me when we first got married, but being 24/7 slave to her and her lover, and a nanny to their ***** wasn't part of the bargain. Still, the only acceptable answer was, "yes, Mistress."

"Since your slave-hood starts with your pathetic sexual fantasies, maybe your master is right that your level of service might go down. I could beat the **** out of you 20 times a day, but I don't know if that would improve things. It might be fun trying, though." She chuckled. "So, you're getting branded for sure, pee-pee, but we're gonna think about castration a little bit more. We may still do it, but there's a few things your master and me need to talk about first."

I fell to my knees. "Oh, thank you, Mistress."

She shrugged. "Don't thank me yet, pee-pee; I told you, I haven't made up my mind yet. We'll see."

"Yes, Mistress."

"Now, get out of here; we're going to ********

"Yes, Mistress. Um, Mistress ... um, may I please have beanbag privileges tonight?"

She smirked. "No, bitch."

"T-thank you, Mistress."

Brent snorted. "Poor pee-pee. You can't catch a break, can you? Don't worry, pee-pee; when you get your own room, you'll have beanbag privileges every night. I don't know if you'll have testicle privileges though, but I'll keep putting in a good word for you to keep your balls. I'll try to keep your mean old mistress from taking them from you."

"T-thank you, sir."

My wife yawned. "Jeez, pee-pee, didn't I tell you a half a fucking hour ago that we were tired and wanted to go to *****? Get the fuck out of here."

"Yes, Mistress. Good night. Good night, Master."

Neither of them answered me as I slinked out of the room.

So, that's where things stand now. I don't know what's going to happen, but it's pretty bad when the best I can hope for is to "only" have my ass and dick branded. I keep reaching down and fondling my balls. Maybe they are useless, as Anna says. But they're mine. They're my balls. I don't want to lose them.

Sigh. I'm emotionally and physically exhausted. I feel like I'm at the breaking point. It's a slap in the face every time I realize my wife doesn't give one **** about me, and sees me as literally an object to mold how she wants. She doesn't want her kid growing up seeing daily whippings, so she's figured how to plunge me deeper into *********** and servitude in a subtle way that'll grip my psyche far more powerfully than physical pain ever could.

Okay, I'm dizzy now. Everything's spinning. I think I may be losing it. Let me see if I can get a few hours' ***** before I start another miserable fucking day as a slave to an evil mistress, and a master who thinks the whole thing is hilarious.

Good night, cruel world.

May 10, 1:04 p.m.

Dear Diary,

I got a head start on my chores today, and Junior is being good, so I've got a little time to relax and make an entry. The last few days have been incredibly stressful, with the question of whether or not I'll be able to keep my balls hanging over everything. It's nice to be able to get lost in my diary and unwind.

I'd better relax while I can, because in a few days I'm going to have to prepare for a Saturday night party in our home, and I already know it's going to be one of the most humiliating evenings of my life. I'm absolutely dreading it, so I'm trying not to think about it.

I'm feeling rundown. I've been killing myself trying to please my masters lately, hoping against hope they'll take pity on me and let me keep my testicles. I've got to convince them that I can be a good slave without having my ass whipped every day as a reminder to be humble. I have to prove that my devotion and service are not contingent on my suffering.

But I know my wife. She's a sadist and a control freak. Mercy isn't her strong suit; not with me, at least. And it's all going to come to a head at this party. As I said, I'm absolutely dreading it.

Sigh. What else is wrong with my fucked-up life?

I just finished my pathetic lunch: an apple and a can of store-brand tuna, washed down with water from the utility sink. I'm not allowed to ***** from the kitchen sink tap — one of many rules Anna hasn't rescinded. I'm still barred from sitting on the furniture; I'm told that rule will remain intact even after little Brent is old enough to understand what's happening around him.

"There's no need for you to be sitting down, anyway, pee-pee," she explained. "If you're sitting down, that just means we need to find more work for you to do. A sitting-down slave is a lazy slave."

Of course, their food will remain off-limits to me, and I'll continue preparing gourmet meals for the family while eating the blandest, cheapest crap money can buy.

So, while my daily existence definitely improved when Anna decided to throttle back on the kinkier elements of our lifestyle, there's no question she still wants me to live as a slave in the future; she just doesn't want anything too freaky.

The question is, will this be a future in which I'm allowed to keep my testicles? My wife hasn't given any indication that she's come to a decision one way or another, which is causing me incredible anxiety. And Brent isn't helping, because even though I know he's my biggest advocate for eschewing castration, he keeps teasing me about it.

Yesterday, for instance, I was sitting on the living room carpet at my master's feet cleaning his sneakers when he smirked down at me from his sofa perch.

"Did you see your mistress last night? She looked like she needed an exorcist, she was bucking around so much, and her eyes rolling back in her head. Damn! That girl is sexy as hell, pee-pee. She turns me on like crazy; I must've cum a quart, huh?"

"Y-yes, sir, there was a whole lot, sir."

Brent sneered. "I guess it must suck having to lick up my sperm, knowing pretty soon you might not be making any of your own. You ever think about that when you're cleaning your mistress's pussy?"

"Y-yes, sir, I do." A tear fell down my cheek, and I tried to concentrate on cleaning my master's shoe.

"Aw, don't be sad, pee-pee," Brent said. "I told you, I'll try to talk to your mistress about letting you keep your little balls. I can't promise anything, though — you know what a bitch she is."

Anna has been holding the castration thing over my head as well. The other day, after she ordered me to refill her coffee, she added: "and if you want to keep those pathetic little balls of yours, you'll hurry the fuck up." That's indicative of the kind of snide remarks she's been tossing my way.

Then, yesterday, my wife took it to a new level. I was scrubbing the baseboards in the hallway outside the master bedroom, and overheard her talking to her friend Jenny.

"Yeah, we're still not sure about the castration," she said as she lounged on the bed, oblivious to my presence outside the room. I stopped scrubbing and perked up.

"There are still a lot of things to consider," Anna said. "I mean, I really want to do it, but Brent's right; it might do more harm than good. I don't want to ruin him; I'm too used to having a slave around. There are a lot of pros and cons."

There was a pause, and then my wife chuckled at whatever her friend said on the other end of the line. "Oh, my god, that's a fucking great idea! Are you busy Saturday night? Good. We'll keep it small; just a few people. It should be a blast. Alright, girl, talk to you later."

Anna hung up and called for her lover, who was in the living room watching TV. Brent brushed past me and strode into the bedroom.

"What's up, baby?" he asked.

"Jen had a great idea. We could invite some people over and have a tribunal for pee-pee; let him make the case for keeping his balls."

Brent broke into a grin. "Oh, my god, that is a fucking great idea!"

"I know, right?" Anna smiled.

I wanted to cry, not only from the news, but from the fact that my wife hadn't even bothered telling me yet. Instead, she continued laying out her plan to Brent: "We were talking about having a party Saturday. Does that work for you, baby?"

Brent nodded. "Sure, I was just gonna work on the Mustang, so that shouldn't be a problem."

Anna then yelled: "Hey, pee-pee. Get in here." From the loudness of her voice, I don't think she realized I was within listening distance.

I knocked on the bedroom door, and my wife gave me permission to enter.

"Listen, pee-pee, we're gonna have a party Saturday in your honor. You'll get the chance to tell everyone why you should keep your balls. It'll be like a tribunal for your testicles. A testicle tribunal. You can make your case, and then everyone at the party will get a vote."

My head was spinning. I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

Brent smirked. "You've got a couple days to prepare your arguments, counselor. But you'd better come up with something convincing, pee-pee; your mistress is a pretty tough judge, and I doubt Tammy or Jen are going to exactly be lenient."

Anna chuckled. "Depending what the verdict is, that'll be weighed as part of your overall test score. If it's guilty, and the majority at the party decides you should be castrated, that won't automatically mean you will be — but it'll certainly hurt your overall chances when we make our decision. Sounds like fun, doesn't it, pee-pee?"

I gulped. "Y-yes, Mistress."

"Don't fucking lie." Her eyes narrowed. "You're such a fucking kiss-ass. You know damn well it's not gonna be fun."

"Not for pee-pee, anyway," Brent chimed in. "Me, I think I'm gonna have a blast!"

Anna clapped her hands. "Okay, that's it, pee-pee. Get back to whatever little chore you were doing."

"Yes, Mistress, thank you, Mistress."

So, that's what I'm facing. As I said, I'm trying not to think about this damned party, even though I know I have to prepare for it. I've got to come up with a way to convince Anna, Brent and their friends that I shouldn't be castrated — although I know already no matter how strong an argument I present, their verdict will depend on how much they've had to ***** and what kind of mood they're in.

Ugh. Life really sucks right now. I'm dreading this fucking party.

Thank you CW, for your timke and effort that you put in to your craft
I used to follow you back in the days of the yahoo groups and always enjoyed your work. It is wonderful that you still post here and give us the chance to read your work.
especially as you say that you usually sell your product via Amazon.
Thank you once again and mpore power to you

R

Rover68uk
Same here, well put, couldn't agree more

Rover68uk

I appreciate the reply. I stopped selling on Amazon for personal reasons, but I've written free stories for more than 20 years, simply for the enjoyment others get out of them. To that end, the feedback is very much appreciated from everyone. Glad you guys enjoy pee-pee's adventures; there's a lot more to come!

May 13, 3:34 a.m.

Well, the festivities are over, but the memories will haunt me forever.

It's difficult to hold my pen as I write this, because I'm literally still shaking, and the party broke up more than three hours ago. I've had a lot of humiliating episodes in my sad excuse for a life, but this one takes the cake.

You'd think by now I'd be used to having my soul ripped out of my body and pissed on.

You'd think I'd be used to wallowing in *********** while my tormentors point and laugh at me.

You'd think I'd be used to my beloved wife and her bully of a lover treating me like dog**** in front of their friends.

Well, I'm not used to it. I'm not used to any of it. Believe me, it always feels like the first time. It always fucking sucks.

The party was a smashing success as far as Anna and Brent are concerned. I don't see it that way, although nobody really gives a **** about my opinion. Of course, they held their kangaroo court, and I made an impassioned plea to keep my balls. And, of course, I lost the appeal — but the kicker is, I was ****** by my wife to cast the deciding vote that sealed my own fate.

And now, here I am, petrified about losing part of my body, and wondering why the hell I don't just run out the front door.

I know why. Love. I love her. Yeah, I know; it's sick. This isn't love; it's *****. I'm a sucker. I'm a sap. I'm pathetic.

Guilty as charged.

But I just can't leave — even with the prospect of being permanently *********. It's not a question of if it'll happen, but when. Anna has already decided that I am going to be branded, including on my penis, and there's no talking her out of that. Every time I think of how painful that's going to be, I start having a panic attack.

If only that were the extent of my problems, though. She's gung-ho about having me castrated, especially after what happened at the party.

It was a stressful Saturday from the start. From the moment I brought my masters breakfast in bed, they were busting my balls (no pun intended).

It started when Brent bit into an eggshell.

"What the fuck — get over here, pee-pee," he screamed after plucking the tiny shell fragment from the tip of his tongue.

Heart pounding, I tiptoed to my master's side of the bed.

"Kneel your ass down."

I complied. Although I was braced for some sort of retribution, I still was shocked when he dumped the contents of his plate — eggs, pancakes with syrup, sausage links — on my head. Then, he slapped the **** out of me.

"Fucking eggshells; I should give you a goddamn hot pocket," he said.

"Oh, please, Master, please, I'm so sorry, please—"

"Shut the fuck up, pee-pee, and clean up this fucking mess," Brent said. "Then, go make me another breakfast."

I scrambled as fast as I could to carry out his orders, thankful that I'd escaped further punishment.

Then, after breakfast, Anna started on me.

She had just left the shower and sat on the bed to get dressed, when she picked up her blouse and frowned.

"What the hell is this?"

I stopped polishing the dresser mirror and swallowed. "Um, what's wrong, Mistress?"

"What's wrong?! Look!" She held up the blouse and pointed to a tiny stain on the sleeve.

"Ohmygod, I'm so sorry, Mistress, I don't know how I missed that—"

"Shut up and come here." She pointed to the carpet near the bed. "Get your ass over here."

A split-second after I knelt before her, she hauled off and slapped the **** out of me, causing a nose*****.

"Don't ***** all over the place, pee-pee; go get a tissue. And then, go ask your master to give you 50 strokes."

"Y-yes, Mistress."

"I knew it was a bad idea to stop your daily reminders. I should've never let your master talk me into it."

"Yes, Mistress."

"Get the fuck out of here."

I literally ran out of the room. I used a tissue to sop up the ***** in my nose and then reported to Brent, who sat on the living room carpet pushing a toy truck toward his ***. I stood there with my hands folded in front of me until my master deemed to address me.

"What do you need, pee-pee?"

"Um, sir ... uh, I screwed up the laundry, and Mistress says I should ask you to give me ... um, 50 strokes."

Brent chuckled. "Boy, you just never learn, do you? You keep pissing her off."

"Yes, sir, I'm sorry."

"Well, not in front of Junior. We're gonna start doing these corrections out in the shed. Grab your cane and go wait for me out there."

"Y-yes, sir."

The shed was a bit cluttered, so I moved the lawnmower and other whatnots out of the way to leave enough room for me to kneel, and for Brent to whip me properly. Then, I knelt facing the shed door, presenting the cane in my outstretched hands as I've been taught to do.

I waited on my knees for about a half-hour before Brent finally slid open the shed door and ducked inside. He took the cane from my grasp and clucked his tongue.

"Listen, pee-pee, you really need to stop pissing your mistress off; she thinks we made a mistake by lightening up on you."

"I-I know, sir. She just told me."

"Well, she's not playing around, pee-pee. If you keep fucking up, it's gonna get a lot worse for you, I guarantee. And you know she's not gonna let you keep those balls if you keep pissing her off, right?"

"Y-yes, sir. I don't know what happened, sir ... I didn't see the stain, and I hand-washed that blouse."

"Whatever, pee-pee. Bend over, and let's get this over with."

My master tore my ass up, and by the time I counted out, "50, thank you, sir," my entire face was wet from my tears.

I knelt before him. "M-may I thank you properly for my instruction, sir?"

Brent smirked. "It's been a while, hasn't it, pee-pee? Okay, sure; just a quickie."

He unzipped his fly, and I leaned in and started sucking. After a few minutes he farted, making me flinch.

"Don't worry, pee-pee, my farts don't stink."

I couldn't answer him because his dick was in my mouth.

I sucked him for about five minutes before he bopped me on the back of the head.

"Okay, you've thanked me," he said. "I want to save this load for your Mistress later. You better start getting the house ready for the party tonight, or Anna's gonna be even more pissed off."

"Yes, sir."

"I know you're not looking forward to this party, are you, pee-pee?"

"Um, I don't know, sir."

He scoffed. "Yeah, right. You think you can make a good argument for keeping your balls?"

"Y-yes, sir, I hope so."

He shook his head. "Well, don't say anything, but I'm gonna vote for you to keep them. Anna's my girl and I love her, but she's a little extreme sometimes. Of course, I don't need to tell you that, do I?"

"Um ... I don't know, sir."

"Whatever, pee-pee. You better get back to the house and get started on your chores. Go grab me a hot coffee, first; I'll be in the living room."

With that, he strolled out of the shed, leaving me on my knees with a burning ass and the taste of his dick still in my mouth.

Then, a few hours later, I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the guest bathroom floor when Anna called from the living room: "pee-pee! Diaper duty!"

I washed my hands and rushed to respond. My wife frowned as she handed the baby to me.

"What the hell is taking so long with potty-training him? Why is he still ****ting his diapers?"

"Uh, the article said it can sometimes take months, especially when you start them as early as we did with Junior, Mistress."

"What, are you trying to say 'I told you so,' pee-pee? I know you didn't want to start training him this early."

"No, no, Mistress, of course not, Mistress, I would never do that, Mistress."

She rolled her eyes. "Jeez, enough with the brown-nosing. Shut the fuck up and change the baby."

"Yes, Ma'am."

It was pretty much like that all day as I rushed around getting the house ready for the party. Anna slapped me because the toilet paper wasn't folded at a 45-degree angle. Brent slapped me because I walked in front of the TV and made him miss a great outfield catch during the game he was watching. When I took too long to tend to the crying baby because I was in the middle of making canapés for the party, my wife slapped me again. At about 6 p.m., Anna's sister came to pick up Junior and take him for the night so my masters could enjoy their party without the kid in the house; when I presented Junior's diaper bag, my wife wasn't happy with how many clothes I'd packed — so I got yet another backhand.

In between slaps, I ran around like crazy trying to get everything done. I had barely completed the last of my many chores when the doorbell rang.

It was 7 o'clock. The witching hour was here.

I answered the door and let Marc and Jenny in.

Marc smirked. "Hey, pee-pee. How's it hanging?"

"It won't be hanging for long if I have anything to say about it," Jenny said, waltzing through the entrance and tapping her finger on my nose three times as I held the door open. "I'll tell you right now, I'm voting for you to get snipped, pee-pee. I want to see those little things sitting in a jar."

My eyes welled with tears, and I felt even worse when it occurred to me that this was just the beginning.

My masters made their way to the foyer and greeted their guests, and I took ***** orders. Seconds after they settled in, the doorbell rang again; this time it was Tammy and Jimmy.

As soon as I opened the door, Tammy reached down, grabbed my genitals through my pants, and squeezed hard, making me yelp.

"Just wanted to make sure they're still there under your little cage, pee-pee," she said as she sauntered through the doorway with her boyfriend at her side.

I felt completely ********, but Anna has made it clear to her friends that they can do anything they want to me, as long as they don't ruin me. So, Tammy felt it was perfectly within her rights to grope me like that, because it is, and she knows there isn't a damn thing I can do about it.

I led Tammy and Jimmy into the living room, and after I served their *****s, my master had me kneel next to his chair and hold his beer out in my cupped hands while everyone relaxed and chatted. They all seemed so mellow, which was the opposite of how I felt. I was so nervous I could barely breathe. As I knelt there, I tried to rehearse my speech, which I hoped would convince everyone to let me keep my testicles. But it was impossible not to listen to their conversation.

"We're going parasailing next week," Marc said.

Anna took a sip of her *****. "I'd love to do that someday. But I really want to skydive."

Brent leaned toward me and took his beer from my grip with his left hand, while surreptitiously pinching my earlobe with his right forefinger and thumb. I bit my lip and managed to keep from crying out. I knew why he was getting my attention — Anna's birthday is next week, and in a few days Brent plans to tell her about the skydiving jaunt I set up — but I didn't understand why my master had to be so mean and pinch my ear so hard like that.

Well, I take that back. I understand why he did it. Even though he's usually nicer to me than Anna, Brent is still a bully. That's why he had me on my knees holding his beer in the first place.

I knelt there with my head bowed, trying to appear as if I weren't eavesdropping on my superiors as they discussed various topics. Eventually, I became the focus.

"It's getting harder and harder to train him," Anna said. "We stopped giving him daily reminders a few days ago, and he's already starting to slack off."

Tammy nibbled a cracker. "So, start whipping his ass again every day."

Brent shook his head. "We're trying to ease off on some of that stuff, now that the baby is getting older. I don't think it's healthy for Junior to see pee-pee getting his ass whipped every day. Besides, pee-pee will come around, won't you, pee-pee?"

I gulped. "Y-yes, sir."

Jen sipped her wine. "If you castrate him, maybe he'll be a better slave. That's what I think, anyway."

Brent sighed. "I don't think so. Serving is a sexual thing for pee-pee; if you cut off his balls, he's going to start slacking off even more, because you'll be literally cutting off the source of his desire to be a slave in the first place."

Anna held up her hand. "Hang on, let's wait until the trial before we start getting into this."

Brent chuckled and tousled my hair. "Sorry, pee-pee, I was trying to put in a good word for you, but Mistress is being the minister of protocol. Go grab me another beer."

Marc rattled the ice in his tumbler. "I need a refill, too, pee-pee." His girlfriend just snapped her fingers and pointed at her empty glass.

I served *****s before kneeling next to my master again, although I was only settled for a second before Brent tapped me on the head.

"I'll hold the beer, pee-pee; I need a footstool."

"Y-yes, sir."

I knew the drill: I knelt on all fours in front of my master's chair, and remained stock-still while he propped his feet on my back. It's humiliating as hell when he does this, but, hey, I'm used to it, right? As I knelt there motionless, the conversation continued above me as if there wasn't anything unusual going on at all. Unfortunately, I remained the topic of discussion.

"He's getting his own room in the basement as soon as Junior's potty trained, so the baby won't see him ******** on the floor," Anna said. "And he'll get to ***** on his little beanbag every night. You'd think that would be enough to make him start acting right, but he's really been fucking up."

As I listened to her, I couldn't understand why my wife was so adamant that I'd been screwing up lately, since I've been bowing and ********, and busting my ass nonstop like I've always done. Well, there was the little stain on Anna's blouse, and a few other minor fuck-ups. But I've been trying as hard as I can, and as I knelt there it brought tears to my eyes when it hit me that my wife either didn't realize it, or didn't give a ****.

Jen shook her head. "Well, I don't see what the big deal is if Junior sees pee-pee getting whipped every day. Just tell him you're correcting the help."

"I don't know," Brent said. "I just don't think it's normal."

"What's normal?" Jen took a sip of wine. "I mean, you're not exactly in a normal relationship to start with."

"That's what I said." Anna crossed her legs on the couch. "But—"

"But we talked about it, and we decided we should stop doing it every day," Brent finished her sentence. "I have no problem with pee-pee being the house servant, but when Junior goes to school, I don't want him telling the other kids about the maid getting whipped every day. It's just something we decided was best. If we need to whip him, we'll take him out to the shed. I just did that earlier today."

"Well, Junior's going to eventually see you whipping him in the shed, isn't he?" Tammy asked.

My master took a swig of beer. "Maybe. But I think it's different taking the servant into the shed for discipline, and doing it every single night in front of a kid."

"Well, I'm wondering if we're doing the right thing by going easy on him." Anna glared at me. I avoided her gaze, closed my eyes and concentrated on being a good footstool for my master.

"That's why we're gonna brand him," Brent said. "That'll be his daily reminder."

"But so will cutting off his balls!" Tammy yelled, and everyone laughed.

Jimmy crossed his legs. "What's the brand gonna be?"

Anna smiled. "We're going with a 'p' on each butt-cheek, and then two p's on the side of his little dick."

"We're also getting a heart tattooed on his arm, with 'Brent + Anna' inside," my master said.

The tattoo was news to me, and this was also the first I'd heard of the brand design. I don't know what bothered me more — that I would actually have to endure four brands instead of the two I'd anticipated (one on each cheek, plus two on my penis), or the fact that my masters told their friends about the manner in which I was to be ********* before they informed me.

The conversation veered into other topics, and eventually morphed into a discussion of Urban Dictionary terms.

"Have you ever had pee-pee give you a blumpkin?" Jimmy asked my master.

Brent chuckled. "No, he hasn't had that pleasure yet."

Jen furrowed her brow. "What's a blumpkin?"

Jimmy tittered. "It's getting a blowjob while you take a ****."

"Ewwwww," Jenny recoiled.

"How about a Dirty Sanchez?" Jimmy asked. "You ever give him one of those?"

Brent lifted his feet off my back. "No, but as luck would have it, we're going to rectify that right now." He stood up and said, "follow me, pee-pee."

Since I didn't know what a Dirty Sanchez was, I had no idea what was in store for me, although I knew it wouldn't be good as I crawled after my master into the bathroom.

I knelt on the bathroom floor as Brent sat on the toilet and emitted a long fart, followed by the plopping sound of turds hitting the toilet water.

"You know what, pee-pee? We're gonna **** two birds with one stone. Come over here and suck my dick."

I obeyed, and with my mouth full it was impossible to hold my breath, so I had to breathe in the horrible scent through my nose. After several seconds, he pushed my head away, wiped his ass and stood up.

"Congratulations, pee-pee, you've just given your first blumpkin. Now, we're gonna keep expanding your horizons; you know what a Dirty Sanchez is?"

"N-no, sir."

"Well, it's basically a poop mustache. So, dip your finger into one of them turds and paint a mustache on your lip."

"Oh, please, Master, please don't make me do that. Please, sir."

Brent chuckled. "Oh, jeez, stop whining, pee-pee. It'll be funny. Do it."

With tears in my eyes, I used my forefinger to scoop up a bit of ***** matter, and then I dabbed it under my nose.

Brent frowned. "Not like that, pee-pee. I don't want a goddamn Adolf Hitler mustache; it's a Sanchez. One of those big Mexican mustaches."

I gathered more **** on my finger and drew a bigger mustache on my face. Brent broke into a grin.

"Now, that's a Dirty Sanchez. Okay, pee-pee, flush the toilet and let's go."

I started toward the door, but he stopped me. "Wait. Stay in here until I say 'come on out, pee-pee.'"

"Yes, sir." I knew he was cooking up something embarrassing.

Brent headed into the living room, and through the closed bathroom door I could hear him singing the "Mexican Hat Dance" tune. Then he said, "Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, Senor pee-pee! Come on out, pee-pee."

I closed my eyes and walked into the living room, my feet feeling like they were melting into the carpet with each step.

Everyone died laughing as soon as they saw me. I stood there in the middle of the room trying not to cry while they all cracked up. The jokes and insults were fired at me a mile a minute, to the point where I couldn't even tell who was making them.

"Well, if pee-pee had trouble finding a girlfriend before this, he sure as hell isn't going to woo anyone with poop on his face."

"Well, at least now he knows how to give a blumkin; he just lost his blumpkin cherry a minute ago."

"pee-pee, you smell like ****."

"Maybe you should have a Dirty Wolfman and make yourself a **** beard."

"If you get hungry, just lick your lips, pee-pee."

I stood there like that for a good 10 minutes before Anna said, "go wash that nasty **** off your face, pee-pee, and then fetch refills. We're going to start your trial now."

I washed up and was instructed by my wife to strip naked and kneel on the living room floor. I can't tell you how vulnerable I felt as I knelt there like that, wearing nothing but my chastity cage, feeling everyone's gaze burn through me.

Anna cleared her throat and commenced the tribunal.

"Okay, then. We are gathered here today to see if pee-pee should make the ultimate sacrifice and give up his useless little testicles."

"Can I get an amen!" Marc shouted, and everyone cracked up.

(continued below)

(May 13 continued)

When the laughter subsided, Anna continued addressing her guests: "Without the daily reminders, we need to make sure pee-pee never forgets his station in life, which is to serve. The brands and the tattoo will work just fine, but I think castration would be a perfect way to permanently remind pee-pee that he's nothing but a little pissant slave."

Then, my wife turned to me. "But this is your chance to make your case, pee-pee. I say you should be castrated. Go ahead and say what you've got to say, and then we'll take a vote."

I sucked in a deep breath.

"Um ... uh ... I know I'm just a slave, and I really don't have a say in this. But I really do want to ... want to serve my mistress and master, and Junior, too. And I feel like my master is right: If the sexual desire isn't there, I'm not sure—"

Anna cut me off: "So, this is just a sexual fantasy for you? That's disappointing, pee-pee. And here I thought your commitment was much deeper than that."

"Oh, no, Mistress, that's not what I'm saying ... it's just—"

"Just what, pee-pee? What are you saying, exactly? If you're not horny, you won't serve me? That's exactly what you're saying. If that's the case, and that's all this is to you, we can just end it right now; you hit the road, and we'll go find us another slave."

Panic flooded through me. "Please, Mistress, no ... that's not it at all. You mean so much to me ... both of you do, and the baby, too. Oh, please, please, don't throw me away." With that, I started bawling.

Anna smirked. "Then, if this isn't just a sexual fantasy to you, then you don't need your balls to serve us, then, do you?"

I bowed my head. "Um ... I ... uh ... no, Mistress."

Tammy made a buzzer sound: "Nnnnnnnnrrrrrgh. Sorry, pee-pee — shot down, big time."

"Overruled!" Jimmy shouted, bringing laughter.

My wife sat back and sipped her wine. "Anything else, pee-pee?"

I had stayed up late for days beforehand formulating several bullet points to bolster my case for keeping my testicles, but my wife has a way of keeping me off balance, and after the way she destroyed my first argument, all I could do was swallow hard and squeak, "no, Mistress."

Anna popped a cracker into her mouth. "Well, I've got to say, that's not much of a defense you've got there, pee-pee. Would anyone else like to say anything before we take a vote?"

Brent held up his hand. "I would. I'm voting to let him keep his balls. I mean, I know this is more than just sex, but I guarantee sex is a huge motivating factor. Especially with him locked up the way he is."

Marc winced. "I don't know how he does it. There's no way I could go months at a time without cumming."

"Well, that's what makes little bitches like pee-pee tick," my master said. "And, frankly, I'm too used to having a slave around to want things to change."

Anna frowned. "But you're the one who wanted to change things in the first place."

"Because the baby's getting older. I don't want him to grow up in a freak show."

"Well, if you want a humble slave who'll **** himself to serve you, I can't think of a better way than a daily reminder — but if we can't do that because of the baby, then we should just take his balls. He needs to sacrifice for us."

I knelt there listening to them talk about me like I wasn't in the room, and it was all I could do to keep from throwing up. Sometimes I literally think my wife is crazy, she's such a control freak.

Brent continued defending me. "He's gonna sacrifice plenty already. He's getting branded ... on his little dick, even."

"That's a sacrifice, all right," Jimmy said. "Yowch."

Tammy leaned away from her boyfriend. "Don't tell me you're voting for pee-pee to keep his balls, too."

"I don't know." Jimmy shrugged. "I mean, the poor little guy works his ass off now and never complains. What else do you want? Seems kind of pointless to cut his balls off, as long as he's being a good slave."

Jen gave Marc the side-eye. "Let me guess — all the men are going to vote for pee-pee."

Marc scoffed. "Bros before hos, my dear." He leaned over and high-fived Jimmy.

Jenny downed her wine and walked toward where I was kneeling; her crotch was right in my face.

"Well, I've got a few points to make of my own," she said. "You know why you should get your balls cut off, pee-pee?"

I squeezed my eyes shut. "N-no, ma'am."

With my eyes closed, I didn't see her foot swing up and slam into my groin; all I felt was a jolt of pain before keeling over in a swirling blanket of aching blackness.

As I rolled on the floor in agony, Jen pouted. "Aw, poor pee-pee. Did that hurt?"

"Y-yes, Ma'am."

"Well, see? There's a reason for you to lose your balls right there — if you didn't have them, I couldn't kick you in them, could I?"

"N-no, ma'am."

Tammy stood up. "My turn. Tell me something, pee-pee — what would you do for me if I voted to let you to keep your balls?"

"Oh, Miss Tammy, I'd do anything for you, please, ma'am."

She smirked. "Okay, I'll tell you what. Go into the kitchen and get a broom. Hurry up."

Still in pain, I hobbled as quickly as I could to the utility closet, not the kitchen, to fetch the broom and present it to Tammy, fear knotting my stomach at what I suspected she was about to do.

"Don't give it to me, pee-pee," Tammy sneered. "Fuck yourself with it."

I bowed my head. "Um, ma'am?"

"You heard me. Fuck yourself with the broom. Lay down on the floor, stick that broom up your ass, and put on a good show for us, pee-pee, and I might think about voting for you to keep your shriveled-up little balls."."

I swallowed what little bit of pride I had left, lay down on the floor, and inserted the broom handle up my rectum.

Everyone giggled and unleashed a barrage of quips:

"You go, pee-pee!"

"Hump it. Hump, hump."

"Get it in there deeper. Deeper."

"Uh-oh — looks like pee-pee's got a new boyfriend."

I humiliated myself like that for a good 10 minutes before Tammy held up her hand.

"Okay, that's enough, pee-pee. Pull it out."

I gingerly obeyed her order.

"Now, suck it clean."

I did as she ordered to the cheers of everyone in the room.

Then, Tammy made a big production out of leaning back in her chair and sighing loudly.

"Well, pee-pee, I hate to break it to you, but I'm still voting for you to get snipped. I was always gonna vote that way. But thanks for the show anyway."

Everyone doubled over in laughter while I watched my tears make a dark spot in the carpet.

After the merriment died down, Brent cleared his throat. "If I could jump in here and get serious again for a minute, there are a few logistic things to consider. If we were to do this, we'd have to find a doctor in Bumfuck, Egypt; some backwards-ass country, because there's no doctor who'd do a castration here."

"They would if you called it a sex change," Jenny said.

Anna perked up. "Wow, we never even thought of that. We could make pee-pee a sissy maid. How would you like that; would you like to get a sex change, pee-pee?"

I blinked back tears. "I-I don't know, Mistress."

"You'll like one if I tell you to like it, you ugly little faggot."

"Y-yes, Mistress. I'm sorry, Mistress"

Anna rubbed her chin. "Making pee-pee a female maid." She looked at Brent. "What do you think, babe?"

"I don't know." My master glanced at me and scoffed. "He'd be an ugly fucking woman — I'll tell you that much."

Everyone except me laughed.

Brent looked me up and down. "But it's not the worst idea in the world. It's definitely something to think about."

"I agree; now we have another option." Anna held out her glass. "Refill, pee-pee."

Everyone else needed their ****** refilled as well, so I scurried to get that done. As I set everyone's glasses in front of them, they looked up at me with smug expressions on their faces watching me kiss major ass, hoping to get them to vote my way.

After everyone was served, I again knelt in front of the assembled guests.

Anna took a sip and set down her glass. "Okay, guys, it's time to hear the verdict. Everyone for pee-pee keeping his balls, raise your hand."

All three men raised their hands, and Jen rolled her eyes.

"I can't believe you guys," she said. For some reason, she seemed to want me castrated even more than my wife did.

Anna sighed. "I see how this is gonna go. All right, everyone who wants pee-pee castrated, raise your hand."

The three females all raised their hands.

"A tie." Anna turned to me. "Looks like you get the deciding vote, pee-pee."

This was the first time I'd heard that I would be allowed a vote. I was elated, and ready to cast my ballot to keep my balls when my wife held up her finger.

"Now, pee-pee, you can vote however you want to, but just realize that if you vote against castration, your mistress is going to be very upset."

Tammy giggled. "You wouldn't want to upset your mistress, would you, pee-pee?"

Jimmy groaned. "Oh, no, don't do it, pee-pee. Don't let her talk you out of it. Be a man. Vote to keep your balls."

Brent started the chant, "keep your balls! Keep your balls!" and the other guys joined in. The girls booed them, and Jen balled up napkins and threw them at the men, who picked them up and tossed them back at the girls.

The whole thing was a lark to my superiors, and I felt lower than dogshit at that moment.

When things settled down, Anna continued applying the pressure: "You can listen to these fucking Neanderthals if you want to, pee-pee, but I'm telling you — I'm seriously not gonna like it if you vote no. And you do want to please me, don't you?"

Jimmy rekindled the chant: "Keep your balls! Keep your balls!"

Marc cupped his hands over his mouth. "Come on, pee-pee, you can do it. Grow some balls. Keep yours."

My wife's eyes locked onto mine. "What's your vote, pee-pee?"

I gulped. I knew what I had to say.

"Um ... I vote to ... um ... for cas ... castration, Mistress." As soon as the words slipped past my lips, I lost it and started bawling like a baby.

"Boo!" Brent said, and the guys rained down a chorus of jibes and hisses at me:

"Fag!"

"You really don't have any balls, do you?"

"I'm ashamed to share the same chromosomes with you, pee-pee."

"Fag!"

"You voted to cut off your own balls, man."

"Maybe you should go ahead and get a sex change, because you're already a sissy."

"Fag!"

Meanwhile, the ladies were in their glory. This party had turned into a good-natured battle of the sexes; the girls "won," and I was stuck in the middle, horrified as they jibed with each other about the fate of my body parts like they were mere party favors.

Anna picked up a coaster and banged it three times on the living room table like a gavel. "Well, it's official. The results of the tribunal are in; four votes for pee-pee getting castrated, and three for him keeping his balls. Sorry, pee-pee. Looks like you can kiss those little pathetic things goodbye."

"B-but Mistress ... I ... I thought you said this was only part of the final decision."

"It is." She chuckled and bit the corner off a cracker. "But I don't exactly like your chances, pee-pee."

Once again, everyone laughed at my expense.

The party continued for about an hour after the verdict was read, and I absorbed constant jokes about losing my balls. The women in particular thought it was funny; I think the idea made the guys queasy, although that didn't stop them from kidding me about it.

The party broke up just before midnight. As usual, I had to thank each guest for attending. Then, my masters went upstairs to crash while I cleaned up the living room with a heavy heart.

Since then, my heart has only gotten gloomier. Once again, I've suffered through another ********* night, and I know I'm going to be dragging ass tomorrow.

Maybe if I close out this diary entry, I can get 15-20 minutes of ***** before I have to get up and start my chores.

At this point, I'd settle for 15-20 seconds of REM blackness. Anything to dim the awful memories of the trauma I've just endured, and the bone-chilling anxiety that grips me whenever I think of the impending fate of my testicles.

This is just so unfair.

Well, good night. Please let me get to ***** ...