Chapter 9

Two years later
The Murphy Residence

“So, your old boss croaked. Mr. Henry. Is that right?” I asked Brittany for clarification.

“Yes, and according to his lawyer, I’m needed at the reading of his will,” my cute blonde waitress replied with a wink.

I chuckled as I slid in and out of my slave, Tamara, slapping her cheeks as I pounded her twat good and hard. My twin sister, Wendy, was busy screwing my wife, Vanessa, from behind with a strap-on inside her snatch. Wendy’s slave, Jordan, by now a complete sissy slut, got her tight end rammed in turns by each of the busboys in bondage to Brittany. Jordan’s cock strained against her stainless steel cage with every stroke inside her cornhole.

Brittany kissed me hard on the mouth as she got ready for the will. She smelled of vanilla and something metallic, a sharp contrast to the sterile office of the lawyer waiting for us downtown. She adjusted her dress, the fabric clinging to her curves in a way that suggested she was expecting a windfall, not just a formal reading.

As Brittany departed, I noticed the absence of underwear, something that put a chuckle on my face. The thin silk of her dress didn’t stand a chance against the bold confidence of her stride, leaving a clear, tantalizing silhouette that promised she wasn’t going to the law office to simply collect a check.

I paused to check the latest health bulletins on my tablet, noting with a sense of professional relief that STIs were largely in major retreat in Arizona, just as in California, New Mexico, and Nevada. In a lifestyle where boundaries were as fluid as the participants, such a statistical dip provided a comforting layer of security for the rotation of bodies we kept circling through the house. While we tended to prefer our own household companions, it was nice that we could all stray now and then without so much at risk. If Brittany wanted to service the attorney as she sometimes did with her old boss from the cafe, she could so with reasonable confidence in her health and safety.

I finally came inside Tamara, just as she did in turn before rushing to check on little Nadia, our daughter napping in another room. The transition from the primal, rhythmic heat of the dungeon to the soft, dim silence of the nursery always felt like a sudden plunge into cold water. Tamara’s breath was still ragged, her skin flushed, but her expression shifted instantly into that of a protective mother as she peered over the crib rail. Nadia remained deep in her midday slumber, oblivious to the tangled limbs and heavy scents of musk and exertion lingering just beyond the doorway.

“I should check on Patricia, too,” Vanessa commented as Wendy slid out of her.

“And I on Fitzpatrick,” Wendy smiled, thinking of our son.

That left me alone with the boys, and I was in the mood to make Jordan suffer a bit. I grabbed the sissy slave’s hair and pulled her to my cock, forcing her mouth open to claim it. The effects of years of chemical castration were apparent by now, both in the softening of her features, the reduced hostility toward me, and the decreased erections, making her more comfortable in her cock cage than in times past. Her feminization was well underway, and I was confident that, when she was legally free of her sentence, she would stay and surrender her gonads to the surgeon’s knife.

“You don’t mind it on the bottom anymore, do you, Jordan? You make a more attractive sissy than a man, that’s for sure. That’s right, suck Tamara’s juices off my cock like a good slut,” I told Jordan, stroking her soft, luscious hair as the three ladies returned from their maternal duties.