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TRAMPLE

TRAMPLE

  

  

  

  

TRAMPLE STORIES - TRAMPLING STORIES

  

  

  

TRAMPLE EVENING STORY

  

Marion smiled humourlessly and crooked her finger to summon her husband to her side. Robert came across to where his tall wife was sitting. The small, slight, balding, naked and timid old man was a stark contrast to his confident, comfortable, domineering and fully dressed wife. She was cross legged, wearing low heels and charcoal grey stockings. She wore a simple black cotton mini-skirt and a navy blouse. Her thighs held an overwhelming fascination for Robert. 25 year old woman, Marion was very attractive, exuding an air of cunning and knowing.

She sat, smoking, with a glass of red wine at her side. The armchair on which she sat seemed barely large enough, or strong enough to hold her. It seemed to be straining under her fulsome backside.
Robert stood to his wife’s left side as he had been trained to do. Marion ignored him as she drew on her cigarette. Robert stood, unmoving, hands behind his back, cock small and flaccid. This despite the fact that he had not had an orgasm for several years, and the fact that he found his wife very sexually attractive.

Marion turned her mocking face toward her husband. She did not look up at him, she looked across at his genitals. She studied them with a mild curiosity. She lifted his cock on one crooked finger, bobbing it up and down.

“No hard on?” she asked softly, while rubbing her thumb on his shaft.

“No hardness?” She continued. She pursed her lips.

“Tusk tusk,” she said, totting through mocking red painted lips,

“Not even a semi!” She chuckled.

As she chuckled she put aside her cigarette and raised her right hand to cup his testicles. She bounced the swollen hairy orbs lightly up and down, feeling their weight.

“Your ball-sacs seem quite swollen,” she said, oscillating her palm left and right slowly.

“There seems plenty of cum in there,” she added, clasping his testes in her palm.

“So the problem isn’t there.” She took up her cigarette, drew on it, then withdrew it from her mouth and brought the glowing tip toward her husband’s testicles. She rotated the cigarette left and right, grinning, showing the red smears of her lipstick on the filter. She licked her lips.

“Flinch or make a sound and you’ll get a double caning before bed,” she told him menacingly.

Robert tightened his muscles and determined not to move. Marion smiled. She drew on the cigarette again, tapped ash into a plastic cup then touched the tip to her husband’s left testicle. Hairs frazzled at the hot tip. Marion wormed the tip in until it touched sensitive, wrinkled skin. Robert struggled not to move or cry out. The burning pain was tremendous.

Marion held the cigarette to his testicle with her left hand. She moved her right hand up, out of Robert’s sight, then pushed her long nailed index finger up his anus. Robert jumped.

“Oh dear,” said his bored sounding wife, “that’s 60 strokes of the cane for you tonight.”

Robert looked at her horrified.

“70” she said, adding to his torment. Still Robert could not look away.

“80” Marion announced happily.

She twisted the cigarette out on his bullock casually. Despite the incredible pain, Robert finally managed to look away. Marion withdrew the now extinguished cigarette and set it in the plastic cup.

She brought her hand up and around, pinching his floppy cock between her thumb and forefinger. She waggled it side to side.

“What is the matter soft boy?” she asked cruelly.

“Why is the ickle cock all limp and lifeless? Is it because of your injections?”

Marion squeezed his cock between her finger and thumb. Robert winced in pain.

“Answer me,” she commanded.

“Yes Goddess,” Robert replied. She chuckled.

“Yes, these injections have been very efficient at curtailing your rampant desires. No cumming for you is there.”

She squeezed his balls.

“Answer,” she said firmly.

With pain throbbing in his belly Robert said “No Goddess, not for over 4 years.”

Marion laughed. “My Goodness. Four years. I can’t imagine how frustrated you must be.”

She did look up at her husband now.

“And today is a very special day,” she told him.

“Today is the last day of your injections.” She smiled, eyes dancing.

“After this the effect is permanent.” She laughed.

“You can make sperm and get horny, but you can’t get a hard-on and you can never ever cum.” She winked at her husband.

“And here you stand, like a good little boy. Never resisting, never rebelling, doing as you’re told.”

She let go and leaned across to her side table. She picked up an aluminium box with a carrying handle. She set the box in her lap and unfastened the catches with two clicks. The lid popped open to reveal a needle, a bottle of alcohol, a phial of golden fluid and some cotton wool. Marion doused the cotton wool in alcohol and swabbed the head of his cock, where the needle would go in. She was quite rough. Next she filled the needle with fluid from the phial. She held his cock in her left hand, the needle in her right. She brought the tip close, then jabbed it in. Robert hissed and gasped in pain. Marion tightened her grip, paused, then emptied the contents of the needle by the slow pressure of her thumb on a plunger.

She withdrew the needle and replaced it in its box. She put her implements to one side and looked at Robert’s now forever useless cock.

“Kneel boy” she told him.

Robert did, facing away from Marion’s chair.

“Head back and mouth open,” she commanded.

He reclined his head until the back of his skull rested on the arm of the chair, leaving him looking at the ceiling. He opened his mouth. Marion picked up her cigarette and lit it. As she smoked she waited for ash to build. Taking a sip of wine, she rested her hand on Robert’s face, occasionally flicking hot ash into his convenient mouth as and when needed. The ash burned his tongue, but he knew he could not swallow until given permission. Five minutes crawled by. Robert’s neck ached. His jaw ached. His burnt testicle screamed for attention. Marion’s finger occasionally flicked the cigarette, sending ash cascading into Robert’s mouth. It tasted awful. Marion finished her smoke. She dropped the still burning remains into Robert’s mouth.

“Chew and swallow” she commanded. Robert did, trying not to grimace as he knew that would earn extra punishment.

“Good boy,” she said, mocking him.

“Now, lie down. Face beneath my feet,” she said, “so the injection can do its work.”

Robert lay down, without question, on the thinly carpeted floor. He shuffled into position so his face was where Marion’s feet would rest.

Marion slipped off her moist, aromatic shoes and wiggled her fleshy feet. She could smell them already. She pressed each damp sole to her husband’s waiting face. His nostrils were filled with the vinegary scent of his wife’s big, broad feet. She shuffled her feet a little to seat them comfortably, then held quite still. She didn’t plan on removing her feet from her husband’s face for at least an hour.

She poured herself more wine and lit another cigarette. She could feel a build up of gas in her stomach. She let tension build, then pushed a fart out, into the plush seat below her.

The seat below her was no ordinary seat. Robert had built the armchair, on her command, originally for himself to go inside. That had been 10 long years ago when he still could cum, go out and work. He had been a self-employed furniture maker. Marion’s dominant personality had overwhelmed his own submissive one. They were like predator and prey, drawn together irresistibly. She had mentioned the idea. He had built it.

The seat stood on four sturdy legs. The base was reinforced, as were the sides. It was airtight. Adjustable clamps and straps could secure a man inside in various positions. The current occupant, one Arnold Crumshaw, was seated, with his knees drawn up to his chest, head bent backward sharply. His ankles were cuffed together. His wrists were chained tightly to his ankles. He had a collar round his throat. His face pressed up into a padded opening at the rear of the seat. There was an inch of clear space above the man’s face. Beyond that was a series of springs that supported a cushion. The cushion was foam. Whenever Marion passed wind, the scented air would fill the base of the seat.

Arnold’s mouth was gagged with a pair of Marion’s soiled knickers. His mouth was held shut by a mechanical brace that fastened around his head. The brace clipped over the teeth of his jaw while also holding his jaw from beneath. The result was that by turning a wheel on the side of the wicked device his jaw could be forced open or closed. He had to breath through his nose. Marion farted again. The ripping sound was terrible to the man beneath her bottom. The rich, ripe smell, like rotten fruit was sickening. Arnold despaired. He feared he would go mad.

Marion was being paid handsomely to drive the man mad. His wife wanted him out of the way. Marion, who was a Matron at Press-man-down Sanitarium, would arrange for that to happen. When he did go insane she would arrange for him to be given into the custody of the Sanitarium. The head brace/jaw control was a relic from Press-man-down’s past.

Marion sipped her wine. She felt herself getting tipsy. She smiled. The chair was such a marvellous design. She stood, and removed the seat cushion, revealing Arnold’s despairing face. Two turns of the wheel on his head brace forced Arnold’s mouth open. Marion grinned at him.

Stepping behind the chair she picked up a board. The board had a hole in it and a funnel. It also had a toilet seat. She carefully fitted the board onto a wooden rim that normally supported the seat springs.

When the board was in place, the funnel was in Arnold’s mouth. She deliberately refrained from speaking to the man. She turned her back to the chair, raised her skirt, lowered her silken underwear and sat on the toilet seat.

Arnold was sickened, shocked and horrified by the sight of Marion’s naked bottom. This wasn’t the first time she had done this, but prolonged periods of sensory deprivation, broken only by such hideous humiliations, left him less than rational. This was the intent.

Marion sat. She rested her feet on her husband’s face again. He knew what she was doing. She knew it excited him. She saw his skin flush, saw his pulse quicken. She chuckled. Her full bladder wanted to be emptied. She let go a trickle of urine. Arnold swallowed, knowing there were severe penalties for spilling any. The urine smelt and tasted foul. It was thick and salty. More came, splattering the sides of the funnel before filling Arnold’s mouth. He gulped it down. No sooner did he empty his mouth than Marion filled it again. He forced himself to swallow the disgusting drink. Gulp after gulp he swallowed this woman’s wee. Finally the flow abated. Arnold himself now felt bloated. Marion’s pissing ended. She sat still, letting the last drops fall.

When she stood, she wiped herself with a tissue. Smiling grimly she forced the sodden tissue into Arnold’s mouth and pinched his nose. Arnold chewed and swallowed. Marion turned the wheel to close Arnold’s mouth. She removed the toilet seat and replaced the springs and cushion. She knew he was desperate to urinate. With his penis fixed into a waste disposal pipe it was no problem for him to pee. A little alarm would tell her if Arnold rebelled and peed without permission, s Marion knew he wouldn’t dare do so, no matter how painful it got, until she gave permission.

She sat back down, put her feet on Robert’s face, picked up a book and began to read. This would be another pleasant evening for her, and really, she thought, what else mattered?

  

  

Trample Evening Story  - part 2

  
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