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[Author’s note: Those of you familiar with my work will recognize that this is a spinoff from the Domestic Discipline Addict stories. Those stories are autobiographical insofar as a colleague of mine from a job held once in a planning agency told me of her descent into domestic discipline. I’m one of those men who women seem to open up to, which I don’t really understand because, with very few exceptions, I see women as sex objects. But they do. In the Domestic Discipline Addict stories, a few of the details came from Kathy, but mostly they were creations of my imagination. I have been fascinated by some of the characters though. I’ve always wanted to look a little deeper into Vivian and Thomas’ odd relationship. But Sarah, that wonderful combination of innocence and slut, of bounciness and sloth, has always been one of my favorites. So let’s see what she’s been up to, shall we?]
I stretched, luxuriously, like a cat just waking. I’ll give this to David, he knows how to take a girl over the top.
“Do you have to go?” he asked and I laughed.
“Goddamit, David,” I said, “you need to get your ass down in the basement and take care of your wife.”
David and Arlene had, I was thinking, taken to The Life as we call it, too damn quickly. They were moving awfully fast down a road that took most of us years to follow. When I left he would need to go down into their basement where he had built his hucow bride a stall and left her in an LSD induced world of bovine contentment with her teat pump kicking on every 30 minutes for five minutes of milking. But she was locked into a confinement stall and he would need to clean her up.
So I kissed him, a very nice kiss I thought, let him pat my ample ass, and then hopped into my little lovingly restored 1965 Austin-Healey 3000, red as arterial blood and more fun than a box of kittens.
Geography, being immutable, led me past the turnoff to Victoria and Thomas’s place, what we tended to jokingly call The Compound, so I made the turn.
Victoria came to the door, looking striking as always. Silver-haired, dressed in a long lounging jumpsuit, this one in pale blue, with a two-inch-wide collar buttoned tight under her chin, and her entire body covered, from the way the flowing pants legs brushed against the tops of her feet to the cuffs at her wrists.
“Well Sarah, hi,” she said in that bright way she always greeted people at the door, “and what brings you by?”
The way she said it made me think I might be interrupting something so I said, “If I’m interrupting something let me know.”
She smiled and said, “not at all dear, come on in,” and she stepped aside.
“But,” she went on, “what does bring you by.”
So I told her about David’s “emergency call,” worried about Arlene, how I had found them, how I had got her cleaned up, and how I had satisfied him before I headed home.
“And since I was in the neighborhood I thought I’d just stop by,” I finished.
Thomas came in then, dressed in an apron and nothing else, his bulk making him look a little silly.
“Hey, Sarah,” he said, kissing me firmly, “stay for dinner?”
I smiled and said, “who’s up and who’s down?”
“Me up,” he said with a chuckle, “and my beautiful bride down.”
Thomas and Victoria have a weight fetish. It’s not like they’re feeders and feedees, or that they have what the straight world calls an “eating disorder,” anorexia or bulimia or sitophilia, or plain old gluttony. Thomas and Victoria gain and lose in an unending yo-yo. So I said, “sure, you guys lay back and I’ll feed you.”
His grin was almost cherubic. “Oh my,” he said, “let me put the finishing touches on dinner then.”
“This is why you’re my favorite,” Victoria said.
I went in and checked on Thomas in the kitchen. There was a big mixing bowl full of spaghetti pasta, a pot on the stove full of a meat sauce, a two-foot-long loaf of Italian heaped with butter and cheese and baked to a golden brown, and a big bottle of Chianti.
He was loading up a tray.
“I’ll go get Victoria and take her up to the bed,” I said, “you bring that.”
I knew my way around the place so I took Victoria’s hand and led her upstairs to their bedroom. When it’s feeding time, both of them seem to disappear from the world, so I did the work of getting her undressed.
She was thin now, probably under a hundred and twenty pounds. Her skin hung in flaps, a leftover from a few months ago when she had been almost four times her current weight. Her legs and arms were already what I would consider too thin, but it’s not my fetish and I damn sure don’t judge. Part of their fetish involved maximum thinness on their down cycle so she had been getting no exercise for the past couple of months, letting her muscles atrophy.
I helped her into bed, so she was reclining against a pile of a half dozen pillows. Her eyes were unfocused. It WAS feeding time.
Thomas brought the tray, laden with food and set it on the bed beside Victoria so it would be between them when he got in.
I pulled the string of Kartal Escort the bow of his apron and he bent over, helping me to pull the apron over his head. He was so fat, at this stage of his yo-yo size, that his belly hung down, completely covering his sex. His body was hairy although not nearly as hairy as mine. I used two hands and lifted the big bat of his belly apron and let it flop, hitting his thighs with an audible smacking sound.
“Lookin’ good, Tommy,” I said. During his fat phase, he’s Tommy, not Thomas.
I went ahead and stripped too. Feeding them can be a messy business.
But it is ALWAYS a fun business. I would load up a fork with as much spaghetti, loaded with the meat sauce as I could get, and then put it in Tommy’s mouth and then another forkful into Victoria’s mouth. Then a bite of the bread or a drink of the wine.
The feeding took almost an hour. I was in no hurry, and for them, this was a sexual experience. I understood their needs and wanted to be sure they were satisfied. I like them and enjoy giving pleasure. The air was a pleasant mixture of warm garlic bread, spicy meat sauce, and her womanscent, full of pheromones and arousal.
There was still almost a quarter of the bowl of spaghetti, and a good size piece of the garlic bread left when they started slowing down. They were both struggling to swallow as I got to the bottom of the bowl and the end of the garlic bread. There was still a bit of wine too.
Thomas was bloated, and so aroused that his cock peeked out around the apron of fat so I touched him and when his hips moved I said, “relax.”
I would masturbate him a few strokes and then fork another mouthful into each of them.
Thomas might have been bloated, but Victoria looked pregnant the way her belly was distended with all she had eaten.
As I put the last bit of bread into Thomas’ mouth I finished him, his ejaculation leaving a thick white trail of semen down his thighs. He sighed and relaxed completely.
Victoria was really struggling with the last bite and I had to push pretty hard to get the bread in.
They were both a mess. Feeding spaghetti with a tomato-based sauce can be messy and both had red stains pretty much covering the lower half of their faces with plenty smeared on their chests.
She finally managed to swallow and gasped, a great, satisfied intake of air.
“Okay honey,” I said, “you need to go downstairs now, don’t you.”
She nodded, still chewing residual stuff.
“Okay,” I said, smiling, using my best nurse voice, “let’s get you taken care of.”
I gently pulled her ankles around so she sat on the bed, then took both of her hands in mine and helped her stand.
She was a bit unsteady, in part weakness, in part the huge dinner had her center of gravity messed up, as if she was in fact pregnant. She looked pregnant but I knew she wasn’t.
When I had her steady on her feet I started walking her down the stairs.
I had been through this with both of them on a weight losing cycle, so I knew what to do.
They had an extensive collection of drugs and medicines in their cabinet to the left of the stove so I opened the door and took out the two big brown bottles. They were hand-labeled Ipecac and Laxative. Another amber bottle was hand-labeled suppositories, and I grabbed that too. In the refrigerator was a big plastic bottle labeled simply “Prep,” which I grabbed.
“Okay honey,” I said, “let’s get you downstairs now.”
Part of their fetish is, well, I guess you’d call it humiliation or degradation. We could just as easily, hell, more easily, have done what came next in a bathroom, but they did it in the basement when they were on a downward slide.
She had to purge now.
I held her arm carefully as I walked down the stairs with her.
Their basement is set up as a full-blown dungeon. Some of the people in The Life liked that and it had served as the setting for some of the pornographic videos we had made.
The floors are packed dirt and off in one corner is a concrete pad, a very shallow bowl actually, with a water spigot handy. It was a place where particularly dirty people and things can be hosed off and hosed down the drain and where, when we made some special videos that had someone suspended with water dripping, we could arrange a scaffold to accommodate the screenwriter’s needs.
For now, the hose and the drain were all that mattered. It was important that Vivian get all of that food out or she might gain some weight.
As I say, their fetish, not mine, and I do NOT judge.
“Okay sugar,” I said, “Bend over and spread ’em.”
So she bent, reached back, and spread her ass cheeks or me.
I slipped two of the laxative suppositories up her ass, one at a time, and had her lick my finger clean.
I handed her the bottle labeled Ipecac and she tipped it up, draining it quickly.
I held her again, kissed her, knowing how quickly this stuff worked. I went over and turned on the water and set the hose to running, swirling around the little Tuzla Escort concrete bowl. She was standing, watching me, waiting.
So I kissed her again.
“You are SO sexy,” I said and she giggled and ran her hands down the thick hair of my forearm and said, “Oh Sarah, that’s a nice compliment from one of the truly sexy women in the world.”
I laughed and squeezed her and stepped back in a hurry as I felt her start to retch.
She bent over and threw up, violently.
After that first wave passed she moved to the center of the shallow depression and got down on her hands and knees as I walked around, the nozzle on the hose turned to a high-pressure jet, and flushed her mess down the drain.
She was throwing up, wave after wave now, and suddenly she squirted out her asshole. There was no smell, basically, it was clear water since she had so little working through her system.
Her purging lasted a full half-hour and by the end, when she was down to dry heaves, strings of snot and thick drool hung from her nose and mouth to the floor. As I flushed the mess down the drain and then turned the nozzle to a more gentle spray and hosed her ass down she shivered and groaned.
“Look at me,” I said in my most gentle voice.
She turned her head to look up at me, her mouth hanging open as she gasped for breath.
Tears and snot were dripping off of her face as I hosed it down, making her cough.
“Do you need an enema too?” I asked and she nodded, too weak to say anything.
This wasn’t my first time with her so I knew where she kept the long syringe adapted to the hose fitting. I unscrewed the nozzle and fit the enema syringe on it. She was still on all fours, head hanging, panting, when I slipped the syringe in, more a douche syringe than a true enema syringe. The wider end would keep it from slipping out.
I turned the water on, just a little more than a trickle, and walked around to her head, where it hung between her arms.
“You’re beautiful at all your weights,” I said, using two fingers under her chin to lift her head and make her look at me, “but this isn’t healthy, you DO know that, don’t you?”
She giggled then and met my eyes.
“You know what they say,” she said, “live fast, die young, and leave a beautiful corpse.”
I bent and kissed her, a soft, loving kiss.
“I know, baby,” I said, “but I’d hate to lose you.”
She giggled and said, “you’d still have Tommy,” which made me laugh.
“Silly girl,” I said and moved around so I could masturbate her.
The water running out of her ass was an interesting sensation as I found her clitoris with my finger and started making little circles on it.
“God,” she sort of sighed, “you know me too well Sarah. Sometimes it scares me.”
I gave my best throaty chuckle and said, “you love it and you know it.”
Her back arched with her release then, warm water squirting out of her ass as her thick nectar flowed into my hand.
I took her through a dozen orgasms or so before she reached down and pushed my hand away.
“Enough,” she gasped.
“Satisfied?” I asked.
She giggled and said, “yes, my love, I’m satisfied.”
So I turned off the water, pulled the syringe out, giggled a little at the clear spray when I did that and fitted the nozzle back on so I could hose her off one more time.
I helped her get to her feet and then took the bit towel hanging on a peg and dried her off.
We padded, naked, up the stairs, me keeping a hand on the small of her back to steady her. She was still pretty wobbly.
In the kitchen, I got into the refrigerator and handed her the gallon jug I found there.
“Here you are, Victoria,” I said, brushing my fingertips across her cheek, “finish your purging.”
She tipped the jug up and made a face at the taste.
We stood there for the next 15 minutes, her drinking, me encouraging her until she had it all down. It was one of those bowel preparation concoctions used before a colonoscopy. She would be up and down for the rest of the night, sitting on the toilet, and happy.
“Okay, let’s get you to bed now,” I said, and, again, my hand stayed on the small of her back up the stairs.
Tommy hadn’t moved as near as I could tell. His great belly wobbled as Victoria climbed into the bed.
“Good night, my loves,” I said, gathering up my clothes. I kissed Victoria, first on the mouth then on the nipple, and then Tommy, first on the lips, then on the big nipple of his manboob, hanging there too inviting to pass up.
I dressed quickly and then headed home.
My apartment is downtown, one of those upstairs over-a-business apartments that got redeveloped as the city was doing one of those urban redevelopment projects. I took it mostly for the location but also because it has a garage where I can park my little jewel inside and locked up.
Upstairs I breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a pretty interesting and busy day. Okay, hell, it had been a VERY interesting and busy day. But I was tired.
Not too tired, Anadolu Yakası Escort though, to ignore my process of getting to sleep.
I took off my clothes and tossed everything into the hamper and stepped into my oversize shower, starting the water running to get hot, shivering as I waited.
I take a luxurious shower. I scrubbed my face thoroughly and then washed my body with my Dial hand soap. Then it was the shampoo, first the hair on my head and then the rest of my body, followed by conditioner, again, my head first and then the rest of my body.
I stopped out, dried off, and used my hairdryer on my head first and then, as always, on my body.
I stretched, got out my tube of minoxidil (Rogaine), and stood in front of the mirror to tend to myself.
I’m what they call an “exotic” in my career. Well, in both of my careers. Most of the time I’m a hooker, you know, a prostitute, although I prefer the term “well-compensated companion.” Part-time, when Victoria and Thomas have a script that calls for a hairy girl, I’m a porn star. Well, a porn video actress but rarely the star.
Anyway, I’m a hairy girl. When puberty struck, early in my case, I was 11, it didn’t just bring boobs and periods, it brought body hair by the bushel. I fought it for most of my life but it was hopeless. I had to shave my armpits and legs every day and by junior high, I was the constant butt of teasing. High school was a nightmare.
Eventually, I got through school and got a job, I was still scraping hard to make ends meet when Susan, my college roommate came over to pick me up for a girl’s night out in a brand new Mazda Miata.
While I was oohing and aaahing over it I was also complaining that I could never afford such a thing on a junior sales rep for office equipment’s salary. During the course of a long night, dinner with some dancing at a club and later giving darts lessons to college boys at a bar we used to haunt, she told me of her “other” job.
A few weeks later she introduced me to Thomas and Vivian and The Life. Susan was a prostitute, successful enough that she just kept her job as a nurse to get a W-2 at the end of the year to keep the IRS happy. The income that bought her the new car was earned on her back. Well, on her belly and on her knees and on all fours too, but you get the picture.
That first time she took me to The Compound, what we called Thomas and Vivian’s place, a failed dude ranch they had picked up at a tax auction, I was shocked at the openness. It reminded me of a scene from that series I had watched on television, “Spartacus,” about Rome during the decline. It had that feel, with casual nudity, casual sex, open prostitution, and making pornographic videos.
And when Susan (never Sue or Susie) started teasing me about being Harry Sarry they all wanted to see what she was talking about.
Beer and VERY good pot had been flowing freely and before long they had me standing and posing, naked, something I had never imagined doing.
Then Thomas took me aside and we had the talk that changed my life.
“Look,” he had said, “the trick, if you want to make some money with that pretty ass of yours, is to be unique. I can get you a couple of hundred bucks a night as a cute girl, but if you want to make a thousand dollars a night you need a gimmick.”
“A gimmick?” I had asked, surprising myself to be, apparently, considering what he was telling me.
“Look, honey,” he said, “you’re cute, but you’re no beauty, okay?”
I smiled and nodded.
“But this,” and he stroked my arm where the hair was thick and dark, “especially in the current era of smooth women, makes you stand out.”
I had my first “date” with a client two weeks later, and I haven’t looked back or regretted it a bit.
So I stood in front of the mirror, taking inventory as I always did.
I’m short at 5’4″ and, not a fat girl but definitely curvy. Throughout most of history, I would have been called pleasantly plump. I see myself as cute rather than pretty, with a round face, olive skin that tans very dark in the summer, blue eyes that I think of as my best feature, good cheekbones, a small mouth, a straight nose, and small ears completing my face. Moving down, I’m a legitimate C cup, heavy breasts that sag just a bit under their own weight, I’ve never had a baby. Fairly big boobs, in other words, but you’ll never see me on one of those macromastia websites where women with GG and HH cups are featured. I’m not wasp-waisted, but I do have a figure. Well, 36C-30-38. I’m a bit bottom-heavy although I think I have a good ass. My thighs are thick, tapering to good calves, what I like to think of as dancer’s legs.
All of which tells only a part of the story. Hell, there are a dozen girls in and out of the compound that are prettier or have better figures than I do.
It’s the hair that set me apart.
On my head, it’s very thick and wavy, not curly, a dark brown, almost black. But it’s just as dark and coarse everywhere else. I have a soft, almost downy set of sideburns running far down my cheeks. But lower is where it really shows up.
Starting with the roundness of my shoulders I have a fairly heavy coat of hair. Down my arms, it’s kind of straight and fine, but on my forearms, it gets thick and curly. It’s almost as thick on the backs of my hands and my fingers.
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