Cream Teas Cafe on a Rainy Day

The Cream Teas Cafe on a Rainy Day

It was just a normal evening in England.  He sat in his comfortable chair, in his own living room, minding his own business, wearing little more than his own underpants, and listening to the rain beating on the window.  He had never had any interest in clothes.  His idea of comfort was to pad around his home wearing nothing at all, or as little as possible.  The emperor’s new clothes, he thought.  But for the Goddess, he had made a pair of shoes.  They were translucent pink, with luminous pale yellow dots, and clear, ice blue high heels.  Inside the top of the left heel was a secret compartment containing a pink tablet, and in the right a blue one.  The shoes were for Her Serene Grace, the magical Goddess who sweetened his sleepiness and gave him hope.

He was a clever man with a kind heart and a generous nature.  He had a gentle sense of humour, and a calmness of manner which belied his turbulent childhood.  He thought about his parents and closed his eyes.  It was a common enough story: they divorced when he was 6, his father broke clean, the boy became wilful and wayward, his mother tried to discipline him, cruel words were spoken, and a lot of damage was done.

Before the separation, his parents had quarreled ceaselessly and his father, no doubt in his anger and pain, had seen fit to beat him several times for infractions the boy couldn’t recall.  But he remembered the fear and the smacking.  His mother had a different system.  When he was naughty, which was quite often, she would lock him in a downstairs room and leave him to scream, and cry, and beat on the door until his tantrum subsided.  He remembered running out from there and throwing himself into her arms.  He could still recall the warmth of that hug.

There was enough love for him to get by, though the relationship with her remained stormy.  It was only much later he realised that the vicious rows were always at the weekend, and occurred at regular intervals.  At school he became diffident, and under-achieved.  He would leave model planes unfinished, though beautifully constructed.  At the university he marched and espoused lost causes.  He was fascinated by horse racing and took a job in local government.

He had married the sweetest girl and they had three children, the eldest of whom was doing biochemistry and medical research at Oxford University.  He had told his son he wanted an elixir, just in case, and he wanted it quickly, and it had to be a tablet because he couldn’t bear injections.  A bit of target setting never did any harm.  His son had given him the pink and blue tablets with a smile, but said he didn’t know exactly what they would do.  He did not mention how he got them.

They had bought a home by the sea and he was contented.  Up to a point.  Don’t people have an extraordinary talent for complicating their own lives?

The first hint of trouble in paradise had been his predilection for and particular slant on erotic pictures and films.  The ones that really excited him were those in which the woman was looking straight at him.  In his imagination, he was the woman’s victim  – locked in chains at the foot of her bed and forced to watch her having sex with other men.

*********

He loved babies, cats, dogs, flowers, food, music, and women, but not necessarily in alphabetical order.  He was no ugly duckling and had had his moments, but for years now had been honest and faithful, as this world goes.  Edward, his big British Blue feline friend, had landed in his lap and he was absent-mindedly scratching his ears and admiring his big round face and elegant whiskers.  According to the psychiatrist whose book he was reading, the likely symptoms of his childhood experiences were guilt, fear of success, and sexual problems.  It seemed that he blamed his infant love affair with his mother and developing sexuality for successfully driving a wedge between his parents, thereby causing the divorce.  Sounded plausible, he thought.  Could be mumbo – jumbo.   They can tell you anything.

He also liked poems.  One of his favourites was the soaring, poignant, and exquisite:

There was a young man from Cape Cod

Who put his own mother in pod;

His name it was Tucker, the bleeder, the fucker,

The bugger, the bastard, the sod.

Closely followed by the ineffably serene and haunting:

Now let’s raise a firkin to Durkin –

Addicted to jerkin’ his gherkin;

His wife said ‘Now Durkin, by jerkin’ your gherkin

You’re shirkin your firkin.  You bastard.

He even liked rough-hewn sonnets such as:

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date…  by a chap called Will Shakespeare.

His particular favourite, however, was  ‘Under Milk Wood’ by the Welshman, Dylan Thomas.  He admired the jumbled images and alliteration.  Like the dog in the wet-nosed yard, and the fishing boat bobbing sea.

He had a soft voice which animals seemed to trust.  Even when he said things like:  ‘you grey sod, Ted.  I’m going to skin you and make a tennis racket with your guts’, he would say them so gently that his cat would just roll over for a tummy tickle, or come and settle down on his papers.  On this occasion he was more mellow.  He simply and soothingly put the question which was on his mind:  ‘Tell me this now Ted, you fucker, – what about this Goddess?’  His cat bent an ear slightly, to confirm having taken the message, but went on purring.  He wasn’t sure how smart this puss really was.  Sometimes he suspected that his eminence gris was on marijuana.  He reckoned he could beat Ted at chess ninety nine games out of a hundred.

He raised the footrest of his armchair and, in the warm glow from the fire, thought about her voice.  And her picture.  Could he be falling for her?   How easy could that be?  For the idea of her?  How very bizarre.  She could never know, could she?  She probably had about 33,000 besotted and demented would-be lovers, plus a husband and a happy family.  Surely he was strong enough to resist this kind of hocus-pocus.  Wasn’t he?  Ted looked at him, half closing his eyes, – a connoisseur of comfort and pleasure.  In the dusky dimness it sometimes seemed that he was wearing a mask.  Where had he seen that look before?  And the photo of her that he’d altered slightly by adding a necklace, with a key resting in her cleavage.  He felt his erection growing inside its steel tube and wished he hadn’t posted himself the key.  Before long he felt an insistent pulling on the tethering ring and smiled.  Ted was heading for the kitchen, saying something about his dinner, his whiskers and his ears.  A silver chain somehow connected the ring on his chastity device to Ted’s collar.

In the hallway, he just had time to grab the shoes before he fell, headlong, into the darkness.

***************

Ted had transmogrified.  Instead of his big pedigreedy puss, a woman was leading him by the silver chain down and down, around and around, in a sweeping spiral.  They descended through several stone doors that swung silently and locked behind him with a soft click.  He followed, not quite believing, and found himself in a dungeon.  ‘Wait here, pet,’ she said in that lovely soft voice, ‘and don’t look through the bars in the door’.  She locked the chain to a steel ring built into the stonework.  As she withdrew, he saw that she was wearing the shoes.  A heady perfume wafted over him, and a pulse of erotic pleasure coursed through his body.

He sat down and heard music playing and her voice speaking to him in the darkness.  It was calming, soporific, chanting, intoning, rhythmic, suggestive, sensuous, majestic, modulating, sometimes lilting, sometimes a monotone, hinting at intimacy, slipping her sunflower seeds of seduction past his defences, and planting them in his mesmerised and marmaladed mind.  She was making it pleasurable for him to obey her, and he felt himself going deeper than ever before, almost unconscious at times.  He shook his head awake and did his best to fight off the soothing, insinuating tendrils of her art.

He smelled the enticing aroma of coffee, and found himself drawn irresistibly to the door.  He looked through the barred window.  In her bedchamber she shone and scintillated rainbow light.  All around her bed there were naked men trying to get near her, imploring and beseeching.   They were all on their knees, all wearing steel collars above their testicles, all chained by those same collars to the floor, and all with flaccid sexual organs, many of them huge.  She ran the back of her hand down the cheek of one of the men, and murmured something in his ear.  A shudder went through him and his massive penis lifted off like a rocket.  She did the same to all the men and was soon surrounded by waving, throbbing and bobbing erections.  Wearing long black gloves, she pressed some of them down and seemed amused to watch them spring back up towards her beautiful face.  Of course she knew he was watching, desperately excited and uncomfortable in his cocklock.  She gazed straight at him, holding him transfixed, letting him see the key flashing and glinting between her breasts.  How on earth…?  He felt like a white rabbit, paralysed in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

She came back into the dungeon.  ‘You have hidden from me and you have already disobeyed me’, she said softly but decisively.  She examined his chastity device.  It was a stainless steel tube curving downwards and encasing his cock tightly, apart from the glans which protruded from the end and was pinned in place by a locked frenum piercing.  The other end of the tube was welded onto a handcuff which encircled his penis and scrotum and could be tightened progressively until completely secure.  So there he stood before her, with his swollen penis curving sharply downwards and causing him substantial discomfort.  She tapped on the steel appreciatively with the key, and said in her sultry voice, ‘Mmmm….. that’s nice.  Doesn’t he look sweet?  You won’t get out of that in a hurry.’  She continued:  ‘I don’t really need chastity devices, as you’ll discover, but they are handy for training difficult subjects’.  She began gently stroking the glans, then put her arms round him.  She simply stood there, holding him close, touching his cheek with her own, while brushing her bosom lightly against his chest.

The excitement and pain were unbearable.  Sparks flashed in his brain and an erotic convulsion shook him.  But his cock had nowhere to go.  It swelled in its tube and the piercing hurt badly.  She unlocked and freed him and spoke a word he couldn’t understand into his breathless ear.  Immediately his magic wand straightened and proclaimed his virility to any who cared to look.  Ready, willing and able indeed.

She spoke another word in her strange tongue and his proud tower collapsed.

‘Who controls you, pet?’ she enquired, demurely.  The answer was obvious.  But he still couldn’t believe it when he heard himself saying that she did.

She put a special titanium collar around his neck and locked it in place.  Then she attached the silver chain and led him bewildered into the bedchamber, and onto her bed.  Emerging from the middle of the bed was a chain holding a single shackle.  She bade him lie down on his back and gently closed the shackle between his limp cock and his balls.  She gradually tightened the screw until his testicles were comfortably but securely trapped and restrained, their shape clearly defined.  She locked the shackle with a snap and a shiver shook him.  Then she locked the silver chain on his collar to an anchorage point on the bed head.  He was all but helpless.

‘Welcome to my Cream Teas Cafe’, she said, with an expansive gesture.  She lay beside him on the bed and resumed her libidinous ritual with the waving cocks.  Occasionally she would hold one and admire it.  Sometimes she would stroke one, or tease it with her nails through the glove.  Sometimes she would reach down and thoughtfully rub an admirer’s chained testicles with the palm of her hand.  Sometimes she would permit a release, and sperm would shoot across the bed in white-hot spurts.  He was being driven mad with desire and lust.  She placed a sweet kiss on the weeping end of a black cock which would have brought tears to the eyes of a brood mare.  ‘They might not be real’, she said, speaking quite kindly to him.  ‘They may be only holograms.  They could even represent your father.  Don’t be upset.’

Her sympathy made it far worse.  He felt a cry of jealousy, anguish and frustration rising from some primitive part of his being as she began gazing compassionately at him while first licking and then sucking two gigantic penile prongs at the same time.  He flipped, and started shaking the bed, and beating on it with his fists, imprisoned by his neck and balls, tears running down his face, his cock still crazily limp.  He felt a stinging lash across his right calf.  The man brandishing the riding crop had stretched across the bed to hit him.  He was tall and slim with reddish hair and greeny – grey, donald duck pond eyes, not unlike his own.  He stopped fighting and just sobbed soundlessly.

She swept over him and looked down, her hair falling into his face.  Her eyes shone and shimmered and the pupils were large in their misty hazel-green depths.  ‘Be at peace, my pet, and let me comfort you’, she said, as she hugged him and her warmth enveloped him in tranquility and pure pleasure.

She removed her top and placed his hands on the silky brassiere supporting her ample bosom.  He gazed at her cleavage and the key still dangling there, and felt enchanted but quite dominated.  He could no longer look into her eyes.  Somewhere in the back of his mind a bell was chiming.  The shackle and chain pulled on his testicles.  He pulled the garment upwards and let her breasts spill out.  Disbelieving, he touched, stroked, and cupped them in his hands, supporting their weight.  Then he gently kneaded and squeezed them.  She moved up his body so that her bosom was bouncing over his face.  He kissed her large, erect nipples and began to suck gently.  She gave a surprised sigh of pleasure, slid back down towards his captivated groin and began kissing him passionately.  Of course he couldn’t penetrate her.  His cock would not rise to the occasion.  Her magic was potent.  His was the opposite.  It was the purest torture.

She paused and noticed the shoes, as if for the first time.  She took them off with a grimace and was about to throw them at him when suddenly she found the tablets – the words  ‘EAT ME’  embossed on each one.  She poured some deliciously fragrant coffee and made him take the pink tablet while she swallowed the blue one.  His penis petered, plummeted and plunged to the proportions of a pulsating pea.  His scrotum and testicles seemed to rise into his body, the chain and shackle falling to the bed, leaving behind between his legs what looked like a beautiful, moist, pink rose.

The blue tablet was no less dramatic.  Her clitoris grew… and grew…  and grew…  until she possessed not only her own wondrous womanly charms, but also a long, thick, powerful, throbbing baby begetter.  She wasted no time in plunging her new toy deep into his rosy reproductive receptacle, and deflowered him there and then.  She teased and titillated him, bringing him several times to the very edge of orgasm, but then leaving him there.  She felt her own passion rising in stages but concentrated in an unfamiliar way into her newfound, thrusting, excited, tickling, reciprocating, and highly lubricated appendage.  ‘Yes…………yes……….. oh YES……..’  she cried, and felt a hundred million rampaging white tadpoles firing themselves through the middle of her steaming cannon.  She came deep inside him, flooding him with hot sperm.  He lay beneath her at maximum excitement and in total frustration.

‘Now you know exactly what it’s like to be a woman, pet’, she panted, allowing her still stiff penis to marinade gently inside him.

‘Who fucking controls you, pet?’ she enquired sweetly.

The humour was lost on him.  He felt desperate and humiliated and told her through clenched teeth that he made his own fucking choices.

She thought quickly and pressed a button. The black man found his chain had suddenly become much longer.  He approached her from behind and she felt his huge cock thrusting between her legs.  He penetrated her and slid his mighty sex deep into her vagina.  He was being fucked to a frustrated frazzle by his Mistress while she was being filled and thrilled to multiple orgasms by a man with a dick like a dinosaur.  Time and again he had to watch as her eyelids squeezed shut and her face froze in impassioned electrified ecstasy.  He thought his misery was complete.  But the Goddess had one more surprise for the hapless, unruly subject writhing beneath her.  She copied and pasted herself, dematerialised, reincarnated and metamorphosed before the assembled throng and turned into………

**********

His own sweet wife, naked on top of him but now hung like a stallion.  It was already too late.  Passions were far too high.  His wife went on fucking him with fresh, slippery, bulging vigour, her own orgasm beginning to rise out of control.  She gave delighted gasps as the black cock rammed in and out of her.  Escape was impossible.  She was the meat in a strange syncopating sandwich, the three of them locked together in an exquisitely painful dance macabre, a squirming, boiling, mouth opening, eye rolling, crescendo building, ejaculating and orgasmating frenzy.  They all climaxed together – a breathless, blazing blizzard of sperm and shuddering love juices.

************

He awoke in a sweat and found himself back in his own armchair, in his own home.  The rain was still pattering on the window.  How he loved that sound.  Ted was lying on his chest, snuggling into his neck, purring and sucking his ear lobe.

‘Oh Ted, you bloody buggery bimbo-bollocked baboon.  Oh, thank God.’   He heaved a shaking sigh of relief and wiped his brow.  He got up to make some tea.

It was only then that he felt the wetness.  Reaching down behind his balls he touched the pink, bleach-scented rose, and felt the warm, slippery semen on his fingers.  It seemed to be gushing out of him.

A mellifluous voice inside his mind whispered to him that he couldn’t escape.  He had listened once too often.  Something about subliminal messages.  And the seed had been well and truly sown in both his mind and his body.  The trap had closed.  He had tiptoed towards her web, but was caught just as surely as if he’d blundered into it.  From now on he would love her, and she would be part of him – his feminine side – guarding him, guiding him, advising him, loving him in her own special way, helping him make the right choices, but always, in the final analysis, having the last word.  In short, she could command him.  And whether or not he wore the cocklock, she held the key to his sexual release.

And so he would obey.

Oh, yes.   He would certainly do that.

************

© Rupert Bear

 

 

 

 

 

 

  2 comments for “Cream Teas Cafe on a Rainy Day

  1. charles maisonneuve
    July 23, 2019 at 3:43 am

    thanks for the erotica

  2. August 12, 2019 at 12:12 pm

    I’m happy to finally read this. Really love how preemptive the beginning and middle of the story goes along until the erotic turn. The first part is obscure, almost, but it really favors the latter in a big thoughtful way. Also sexy. Very erotic in all the right ways!

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