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Pure Filth! Part One

Brandon's wife decides to cure him of his perverse, porn-inspired fantasies.
The man was naked, sweating, red-faced. His hands were cuffed behind his back as he knelt in front of a woman, his face between her spread thighs. She was wearing a black bustier, opaque black thigh-highs, a tiny sheer black thong, and spike heels. He was licking the front of her crotch, pushing his tongue against the nylon to pleasure the swollen clit within. As the camera came closer, there was a glint of gold, apparently from a piercing in the woman’s clit. The only sound was the man’s labored breathing and the licking of tongue against fabric. Then the woman said, “See, even a faggot can learn to lick a pussy.”

The sound on the computer was turned way down, but Brandon was listening carefully as he stared, fixated, at the scene. His right hand held his pink and purple, stiff cock. He always turned the sound down, even when he was alone in the house as he was now. Alana would not be home for another hour.

As the man’s tongue licked the wet, warm, black fabric, Brandon was imagining himself into the scene. He could actually feel on his own tongue the warm, tangy pussy juice, and his shaft was already throbbing, he was entering the ecstatic phase when the orgasm is just about to start…

Just then, a sound caused him to turn and look over his shoulder. His heart pounded. He shouted, “Oh shit!”

He knew that his life would be changed forever.

It was Brandon Smith’s worst nightmare, and it had happened. At the door of his home office stood Alana, staring in disbelief at what she saw.

Deep in his mind had been the lurking certainty that some day, some distant day, his collection of downloaded pornography would someday be discovered. He kept it on a set of external hard drives. As each one filled up, he disconnected it from the USB port on his computer and put it in a special place with the others in his small home office. It’s not that his tastes were especially unusual, he thought. Mostly the videos he downloaded were of pretty women making love with other pretty women, but sometimes there were groups—two men with one woman, two women with one man. More recently, out of curiosity, he had subscribed to a site where very beautiful dominant women would tie up men and treat them roughly before allowing them to have an orgasm. The exquisite torment of the teasing, the bondage, the combination of sexy tenderness and brutal humiliation was something totally new to him. It aroused him in a way he found difficult to describe. These videos were the ones he wanted most of all to keep secret.

Secret from whom? Well, obviously from his pretty, intelligent, and loving wife Alana. They shared everything. They were soul mates as well as lovers. Since their marriage three years before, Brandon had never been happier. Their conversations, their disagreements, their shared arrangements for cooking, cleaning, gardening their small property, their very physical and uninhibited lovemaking—everything was good! But, as Brandon felt sure, each had some little place of secrets, innocuous secrets. Still, without feeling guilty, he did feel a twinge of shame, especially about the bondage videos.

He had subscribed for three months, and already he knew that he would not renew the subscription. Enough was enough. It made him hard to watch, it thrilled some part of him that was sensitive to shame, the part that his Catholic boyhood had shaped to feel that the best sex was the most nasty, mortally sinful, forbidden, and loaded with punishment.

As he grasped his shriveling cock in his ice-cold hand, he watched his wife walk towards him in her blue and white halter-top sundress, her sandals clicking on the vinyl floor tiles, her natural light blond hair brushing her bare tanned shoulders. Too late he realized that the video was still running, and now, on the screen, in full color, the woman had pulled the thong to one side so that her slave could lick her flesh directly. Her dark-pink and tan labia glistened wide open and now there was a big close up on the gold ring in her clit, wet with saliva and pussy juice.

Alana stared at the screen and exclaimed loudly, “Pure filth! Pure filth is what you’re watching. You’re sick, Brandon! I feel sorry for you!”

She turned and ran out of the room, her steps loud on the stairs down to the first floor.

His hands were shaking as he pulled up his briefs, zipped his jeans, and tried to buckle his belt. By the time he got downstairs, Alana had disappeared. He got himself a beer from the fridge.

When she returned, several hours later, he was completely drunk. Without even looking at him, Alana went up to his office. He heard her opening and closing drawers. She came down, went into the bedroom, and closed the door. Brandon heard the latch being locked from inside.

When he woke up in the guest bedroom next morning, still fully clothed, he went to his office. As he feared, all the hard drives had disappeared. Alana, who knew the master password for the computer, had apparently changed it. He couldn’t log on at all. Hearing Alana down in the kitchen, he went down, feeling defeated, ashamed, and full of foreboding.

It looked as if Alana hadn’t slept well at all. Her eyes were red—she’d been crying—and her hair disheveled. She looked at him without saying anything while he poured himself a coffee.

“I’m sorry, honey. I don’t know what to say. Whatever you want, I’ll do. I just want it to be like before.”

“Like before? No, absolutely not!” she said. “It has got to be different, got to be better. You’re not going off to jerk yourself behind my back, looking at that porn. I’ll think of a way to cure you. It will take a while, but I’ll find a way.”

“It’s not like I’m the only man in America who watches porn. We have a great sex life, so porn hasn’t harmed us at all.”

“The stuff you were watching yesterday was, was… just unimaginable. I’ve been through your collection, and some of it is pretty mild—all those girls with girls—but that bondage porn… that’s just sick.”

“I’ve only watched a little, Alana, and lots of men do like it. I was just checking it out…”

“Checking it out for three months, according to the subscription information. I’ve been through your computer, I know all about it. And, by the way, I’ve changed all the passwords. You’re cut off from your drug.”

“But if I’m sick, as you say, I need help. I’ll get help.”

“I’ve had a sleepless night to think about it, Brandon. In a few days I’ll have a plan. Meanwhile, you can keep sleeping in the guest room. And, by the way, I’m not so much angry as sad. Judging from the video, you’d like me to be angry. But I’m sad, and I’ll find a way to love you again, somehow.”

He knew that once Alana had conceived a project, there was no stopping her. She was self-confident and independent. She liked solving problems.

“Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do.”

“Yes, Brandon, I know you will. I’m going to take a few days of personal leave to work on this. You’ll be at the firm, so we won’t have to interact much.”

In the next few days, every time that Brandon came home from work there seemed to be new cartons of things delivered by UPS or FedEx. He helped Alana by taking them down to the basement, to a large unfinished area that they were thinking of making into a recreation/exercise room. Then there was a batch of rubber mats, the kinds he’d seen in gyms in the weight area. Alana had him set them on the basement floor so that they formed a kind of industrial carpet.

But the biggest shock was on Thursday. Alana had resumed work downtown that day, and when she got home, the beautiful, long blond hair that he so loved was gone! Vanished! All that remained was blond fuzz on the sides and back of her head, and on the top some tresses long enough to comb.

“Surprised? Get used to it! You have more surprises coming.”

Alana’s whole tone had changed. She was more assertive, dominant even, and she was smiling with a secret that she was keeping from him.

Alana had spent most of her days that week at her computer in her study. Brandon tried to guess what she might be doing, and most of all he feared that she was going through all the hard drives she had found in his drawer.

She asked him--no, she told him--to paint the basement room walls with flat black paint. He complied, of course, repentant as he was and hoping that she would once more smile at him as she always had in the past. The smile did not appear, but once he had finished the painting, working evenings after he came home from his office, he was told to mount a large flat-screen television on one wall. It was a used unit, he found, when he took it out of the carton. Alana must have gotten a good deal on eBay. After he installed the television, Alana locked the door of the room.

By then it was Friday evening. In the past, when life in the house was normal, he would return from his firm to be greeted by Alana, in a pretty dress or nice jeans, ready for a good cool drink, before a tasty simple meal, then a film in their bedroom and then...Well, it was just too sad to think about that now.

Alana did greet him at the front door, that was about the only "normal" thing. There she was, her hair shorn, and wearing sweat pants, an old t-shirt, and no make up. Without a smile, she told him that she was now ready to begin.

"It's going to be a long process, but if you want to have any chance at a healthy marriage, you had better comply."

"Anything, Alana honey. This cold shoulder business, I can't stand it anymore. Sleeping alone, coming downstairs in the morning to see you staring daggers at me..."

"Brandon, one of the many things you don't get--and there are many--is that everything I am doing is out of love for you. To rescue our relationship. As I said, I'm more sad than angry, but however difficult the process is, I am resolved to carry it through."

This did not reassure Brandon. In fact, it was so ominous that his hands were cold and clammy.

"Downstairs," she ordered.

He walked ahead, Alana at some distance behind. He could smell the paint from the now black room and the rubber from the new mats on the floor. Down to the basement, to the left, he was standing in front of the locked door. On it were now painted in large red letters in runny paint, "Space of Infinite Night." There she told him to stop and to strip. He complied. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, she held in her hand a pair of handcuffs. With two clicks, his hands were fastened behind his back.

She opened the door, pushed him inside, and then closed the door. He could hear her steps going up to the main floor, while he stood in the dark. Gradually, he was able to perceive the only tiny light in the room, the red button that showed that the flat-screen unit was on standby and ready to be turned on.

He didn't know how long he was there. Maybe the whole process was simply a variant of the old primary school punishment of standing in the classroom corner, facing the wall for an hour. If that was it, it wasn't going to be so bad.

But then he heard someone coming down the stairs. Alana, of course, but her steps were slower than when she had gone up, and there was something different about the sound.

The door opened and then closed, and suddenly the dark was penetrated with a sultry, musky, intense scent, a scent so strong and unequivocally sexual that Brandon felt his penis stiffen. On the rubber-mat floor he couldn't hear Alana's footsteps, but he felt her hand on his back as she pushed him further into the room. He stumbled and fell on his knees. Fortunately the floor was now padded. When the light when on, it blinded him, although really there were only two bare bulbs in the ceiling. He heard a rustle behind his back and then he saw ... he saw someone, a woman walk into his line of vision.

It wasn't Alana. That was the shocking thing! That she would involve a stranger in this business. It was a model or a hooker, wearing spike heels, sheer black stockings, a garter belt, a leather bustier... But when he looked at her face, it was Alana! Except that it couldn't be! With all that dark, metallic eye shadow, the eyeliner, the bright red lipstick, what remained of her blond hair gelled and sticking up in golden spikes!

"Alana, honey!"

"Don't honey me! And forget Alana, your heteronormative, traditional wife. Here I'm Artemesia. Do you know what ‘Artemesia’ means?”

No, he admitted, but he said it was a pretty name.

She laughed at his ignorance. “It means ‘wormwood’ and that’s bitter as it gets. So I’m Artemesia now, but you're still pathetic, sick, wanking Brandon. And you are going to get the shock treatment you need. You are going to let go of all that you once thought was your everyday life, your normal life--you called it normal to go up to your study and sit there in the dark watching that mind-warping filth hour after hour...."

"No, Alana...I mean, Artemesia, it wasn't so many hours..."

"Shut up! Don't pretend. And don't believe for one instant that you have "rights" here, like the "right" to speak."

She stopped for a moment and looked at him kneeling before her. And then she laughed. It was Alana's old, hearty laugh, even though it was coming from someone almost unrecognizable.

"Was it thinking about your hours of wanking to your porn that gave you that hard-on?"

Brandon turned red when he realized that he did have a stiffy.

"You need relief from that, don't you?"

"Honey, I mean Artemesia, I haven't had an orgasm in a week.... I really do need relief."

Brandon sounded hopeful. Alana, Artemesia, seemed to understand his need.

"What have you been doing all week, alone in that guest room bed? I thought that you'd be jacking yourself off until your member was sore!"

There was a silence. Brandon knew that the true answer would only get him into more trouble. It would prove to her how 'perverted' he really was. So he gave a half-truth: "Artemesia, you've been so pissed at me, I was too depressed to do anything like that."

" Bullshit! The real reason is that without your favorite collection of porn, you can't even get it up! You’re in complete denial. I’ve seen your porn, I’ve consulted web sites that deal with people like you, and now I understand you. You’re bent! You’re queer! You’re completely fucked up!"

Brandon just stared at the floor. She waited for a long, long time. Finally, he said, simply, "Help. Help please."

"You want help? You're asking for help? That's a good first step. A necessary step. I want to hear you tell me that you’re fucked up.”

Without hesitation, Brandon echoed, “I’m fucked up! God, am I fucked up! You’ve got to help me!” He was near tears. It was a strange sight. A man near tears, kneeling, and with an engorged cock.

Will you accept my conditions?"

"Yes, of course. I told you, I'll do anything."

"Very well. I'm going to uncuff you just long enough for you to sign this document. Read it first, and when you've read it, agree to sign, and I'll give you a pen.

She took a sheet of paper from a table behind him and put in on the mat in front of him. Although the light was dim, the document was printed in large characters. He read:

Brandon’s Surrender to Infinite Night

1. I promise that henceforth I will no longer have sexual relations with anyone outside of the Room of Infinite Night. I will not even masturbate without the instructions of Artemesia.

2. When I am in this Room of Infinite Night, I will submit entirely to the will of Artemesia in regard to all practices of any nature whatever.

3. I will strive both in the Room of Infinite Night and outside the Room of Infinite Night, to think as Artemesia wishes me to think. I will listen to subliminal audio recordings when going to sleep and at other times that Artemesia or her representative, my wife Alana, requires me to. I understand that such audio recordings are meant to reprogram my thinking and to help me escape the sexual contradictions into which I have plunged.

4. I surrender my body and, if I have one, my soul, to Artemesia, with the hope that she will teach me how to achieve my ultimate destination in Hell.

"Do you agree?"

"It’s really...exaggerated. You can’t be serious."

“Oh, all right. You can stay here at laugh at it. Meanwhile your marriage will just continue the way it’s been the past week!”

She strode out of the room. As he heard her footsteps start on the stairs, Brandon ran after her, naked, catching her half-way up.

“No, I’ll sign it. I need you.”

“Apologize then. Kiss my feet.”

Brandon got down on his knees, then fell forward and kissed both of her feet.

“Maybe you think you deserve better than hell?”

“No, Artemesia, I don’t.”

“So, if you deserve hell, what do you want from me?”

There was a pause. It was utterly silent in the room.

Finally, with effort, he said, “Help me get there.”

“Crawl on your knees back to the room.”

He crawled, scraping his bare knees on the cement floor. It felt good to be back in the room on the rubber floor. There, he signed, as instructed "I, Brandon Smith, agree freely and without coercion to all that is stated above."

“Now, since you have your hands free, show me what you do with them while you watch this!”

She went over to the table below the television. There was a small laptop computer with an external hard drive attached. She clicked a few times, and a video started, in full color and HD.

In the video, a conservatively dressed white couple sat on a sofa, the man’s arm around the woman’s shoulders. She was in her late twenties, while he must have been ten or fifteen years older. Both had wedding rings. Near them, an older man in Bermuda shorts, sat on a chair. Brandon recognized the video all too well. He had downloaded it several months before.

Artemesia asked, “You know what’s going to happen, don’t you? It’s the kind of filth you masturbate to, dear Brandon.”

As Brandon and Artemesia watched, the couple explained that the husband wanted to watch his wife fucked by two men. The husband said that he had never seen this and thought about it constantly. The blonde wife woman smiled nervously, and said that she loved the idea but that it took her a long time to give in to his requests.

“For a long time I thought he was joking. Then I realized that he really wants me to be a slut. What woman doesn’t want to have sex with other people? I was a virgin when we got married, three years ago, so I missed out on a lot. Now I’m finally ready to be on video and to show the world how much I love Jim.”

She leaned over and they kissed passionately.

The man in the Bermuda shorts explained that he had invited two football players from the nearby university, Rod and Sean. At that cue, two really huge men came into the picture. Sean was dark black and Rod was a freckled redhead. The wife stood up and started to kiss Rod on the cheek, but he kissed her on the mouth. She looked at her husband, embarrassed.

“Jim, do you really want this?”

The husband smiled and nodded. She turned back to kissing Rod.

It wasn’t long before the two men and the wife had their clothes off. She had large, slightly sagging breasts. On the left breast was tattooed “JIM.”

Sean pushed his right hand into the woman’s crotch and moved his fingers vigorously while he kissed her. The husband looked on, beaming.

“So, Brandon, this is your idea of what a marriage should be like? Would you like to see your pretty little Alana finger-fucked by a large black man?”

Sweat poured off Brandon’s wet face. He was feeling dizzy from Artemesia’s perfume, that mixed with the smell of the rubber mats, the paint, and, as he now realized, the smell of leather, lots of leather. His eyes left the screen long enough for him to notice that there were hooks on the walls with a multitude of belts, cuffs, hoods, whips and other gear.

“I only watched a few of these. It’s not my own fantasy…”

“You pathetic liar. There are dozens of these videos in your collection, and your mind—your sewer of a mind—must be filled with this shit. You must dream about watching a stud’s semen dripping out of Alana’s stretched vagina.”

In the background, they could hear the groans and the squishy sounds as the pretty blonde wife lay spread on top of Sean, with his cock in her ass, and Rod began, very slowly, to push his purple cockhead between her cunt-lips. Brandon could see that the woman was holding her husband’s hand for reassurance.

“What’s that on the floor?” asked Artemesia sharply.

Brandon looked down and saw three drops of creamy white on the black rubber.

“You’re beginning to leak cum and you haven’t even started stroking. I can see what you like. Did you ever tell Alana that you wanted to share her with other men?”

“No. She would be disgusted…”

Artemesia laughed again. “Maybe you don’t know your wife very well. ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell,’ they say. Remember when she came back from that convention in Florida? Didn’t you see the little … bruise on her neck?”

“Yes, she… she hit her neck somehow, in the airplane…”

“And you believed that? That you can get a hickey from ‘hitting your neck in an airplane’?”

By now the screen was filled with a close-up of the wife’s crotch. Her labia wrapped themselves tightly around Rod’s big chocolate dick. You could see them moving in and out with his movements. And her sphincter was stretched to the breaking-point as Sean sodomized her vigorously. When the camera moved back, you could see the husband leaning over to get a better view.

By now, Brandon was stroking himself rapidly, manically, keeping his eyes on the screen as Artemesia ordered. She simply watched, making a comment every once and a while, “Brandon, you are very good at masturbating!....Brandon, why do you ever try to fuck your wife? You should stick with what you do well!....I’m glad that porn is so readily available for people who need it!”

Just after he watched Rod and Sean finish off by masturbating and sending most of their foamy loads into the blonde wife’s mouth and the rest onto her face, hair, and breasts, Artemesia stepped between Brandon and the screen. It was just as he was about to explode, just as the throbbing between his legs reached its apogee. He tried to turn, to shoot his wad onto the floor, but it was too late. He lost control and sent several arcs of white viscous splatter onto Artemesia’s shapely legs, where it dribbled down the black nylon.

After he had licked up all of the spunk from her nylons, as she ordered, he felt Artemesia’s breath on his cheek. She spoke to him softly, caressingly now for the first time.

“Brandon, darling weak little Brandon, I know that you will have trouble keeping your promise not to have sex outside this room. If you get back into bed with Alana, it will be irresistible—at least until you are trained. So I am going to help you. Do you want me to?”

He was thrilled at the sensual way she cooed in his ear.

“Yes, do what you want.”

“But I want you to want what I want…”

“Yes, I want that.”

“What?”

“For you to help me keep my promise. I don’t know how…”

“Here’s how.”

Artemesia showed him a small thing she was holding in her left hand. A small thing in clear plastic with metal fittings. He didn’t understand.

“Here, just relax.”

Very gently, slowly, she took his cock in her right hand, ignoring the coating of semen that remained. He felt the cool plastic on his cock head and shaft and then realized that she had fitted his genitals inside the plastic object and now closed it. There was a click. His cock was now in a small, transparent cage!

“There, Brandon, you’re safe. You won’t violate your promise by making love with Alana, at least not with your manhood. You can still pee and wash, but you won’t ever have an erection outside of this room. I suppose that Alana will need to find…satisfaction in other ways.”

Brandon was in a fog after his huge orgasm. He was disoriented and only realized hours later how completely everything had changed.

Artemisia left Brandon lying on the floor of the Room of Infinite Night and strode upstairs. He did not know how long he lay there dazed and exhausted when he finally pulled himself together, stood up, and when out into the basement where he found his clothes. After putting them on, he climbed the stairs, not knowing what he would find.

To his amazement, he was greeted by Alana with a smile and a warm embrace. She kissed him lovingly on the lips and said, "Dinner will be ready in a little while."

He hadn't seen her smile in a week, and as he looked at her in the pretty dark blue dress, sandals, and light makeup, he wondered for an instant if he had hallucinated everything that seemed to have taken place. But her long blond hair was gone, replaced by this short cut. And there also lingered, much diminished, the intoxicating scent of Artemesia. So something had happened! He felt a little faint. His head was spinning.

"I think I need a shower," he said.

"All right, sweetheart, you take a shower and then we'll have a drink.”

When he came back to the living room, Alana was waiting for him on the sofa. He sat door next to her, aware that his hand trembled when he picked up the glass of white wine.

“Alana, about what happened downstairs...”

She cut him off by putting her hand on his mouth.

“I don’t need to know anything that happens there, in that room where you go. All I need to know is that you will be going there for treatment until you are cured.”

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than Lushstories.com with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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