Selling Brielle, Part 10

Selling Brielle, Part 10

Story by All These Roadworks (2022).

Author's Note: Writing pays my bills and keeps the lights on - so if you enjoy this story, please consider supporting its creation with the purchase of an e-book or membership from AllTheseRoadworks.com. (Click here to view the store.)

Also - my kinks aren't my politics! I support respect, equity and positive, enthusiastic consent. (Click here to read more on my content policy.)

===

Brielle looked conflicted and unhappy when she came home from her afternoon working at the church, but Jillian didn’t even notice.

Because today was the day. She was going to sell her lesbian wife to the man who was increasingly coming to dominate and drive her sexuality.

Not sell her *completely*, of course - and only for one night. They had discussed the terms of it, as Jillian had knelt at Joel’s feet and gazed dreamily of his exposed cock, dreaming of pumping it with her hand until it ejaculated into her mouth, or, better, yet, sucking on it until she felt Joel’s hot, delicious cum spurting down her throat.

“It can’t be just ‘look but don’t touch’,” Joel had said, and for a moment Jillian had thought he was talking about her own lust to play with Joel’s dick.

“Sorry?” she asked.

“I’ve already seen Brielle’s naked body,” said Joel. “You’ve showed it to me lots of times. If we’re going to do this, I want to touch her face, her breasts, her pussy. I want to see if she’s wet. I want to kiss her.”

Jillian trembled. What they were discussing was immoral, perverted and evil. Joel was asking Jillian to **** her lesbian wife Brielle, and let Joel play with her naked body while she slept. It wasn’t something Brielle would consent to in a million years. Merely suggesting it would be grounds for divorce. And yet Jillian was seriously contemplating it.

They had talked about how it wouldn’t really hurt Brielle, of course. She’d be asleep. She’d never know it had happened. It would cause no harm to her, and no trauma. From her perspective, it would never have happened. And Jillian would be letting Joel live out a vivid fantasy he had, which would in turn please her, because pleasing Joel brought her joy. The net happiness of all three participants would be increased.

And yet, it was wrong. And she was going to do it.

“You just want to touch her… with your hands?” Jillian had asked.

And Joel had smiled. “Mostly,” he said. “But also… I think she should kiss my cock, don’t you? In her sleep? After all, *you* have.”

Jillian flushed with embarrassment. She was a lesbian. She wasn’t supposed to suck cocks. And yet it felt so *right* to be kneeling at Joel’s feet, staring at his dick…

“You’ve called her a fake lesbian before, over the way she accepts the church’s homophobic bullshit,” Joel had continued. “Don’t you want to see if she has a cocksucking instinct, in her sleep?”

Jillian just blushed deeper.

Joel reached down, and caressed Jillian’s cheek. “Will you do it, pet?” he asked her.

And Jillian felt her pussy throb at that word - “pet”. He was asking her to sell her wife - and not even for money. She was selling Brielle to buy another taste of Joel’s cock.

She looked up at the man who had brought her so much comfort and joy over recent weeks.

“Yes, sir,” she had said - consciously choosing that last word, “sir”.

===

When the day had come around, there had been a delivery from Joel that arrived at Jillian’s house. It was a nondescript brown cardboard box. Brielle had been away at work, so Jillian opened it in the lounge room.

Inside was another box - much nicer, and deep romantic red in colour. Opening it, she found an outfit for her to wear within, along with a note from Joel.

The note read as follows:

Jillian,

I will arrive at 9 pm tonight. Have her ready, and be dressed in this outfit. The collar is your symbol of enthusiasm. If you are wearing it tonight, I know that you want me to do this. If you have second thoughts, or are less than certain that you want this to happen, you need only answer the door with your neck bare, and I will make my excuses and leave.

Sir

She gasped a little at that signature. “Sir” was a name she had given him - a name she had allowed him to take from her. It had been a playful name, an almost romantic name. But to see him use it himself, in a note addressed to her, felt like…

It felt like a loving hand stroking her cheek. It felt like a firm hand gripping her hair. It felt like a strong, commanding hand on her throat.

It felt good.

She looked at the outfit. It was skimpier than anything Joel had given her before, although still not completely lewd. There was a white bikini top - but a dress bikini, with gold trim, like she might wear at a nightclub. And there was a skirt, with long white panels at the front and back that would adequately protect her modesty, but which left her legs completely bare. In addition, there were high heels, with long straps that would run around her ankles and a little way up her legs, and a pair of earrings. Unless she missed her guess, the earrings were diamond, and worth a small fortune all by themselves.

And resting atop all the other clothes was a white leather collar, and stitched across the collar near the buckle, in gold, was a single word.

“PET”.

It was a **** collar. There was no two ways about it. A girl who wore this collar was a girl who was owned. And the outfit was the outfit of a decoration, a bimbo, a possession. A pet.

She almost shook with eagerness to try it on.

But she couldn’t. Not yet. If Brielle saw her in the clothes, she would ask where they came from. And she certainly would have opinions about the slutty overall look they would give Jillian - and more questions still about the collar. The clothes would have to wait until Brielle was asleep.

What she was doing was wrong - and yet the thought of Joel seeing her in those clothes, the idea of his cock hardening as he looked at her, drove all her confusion from her mind. The only thing that mattered was to **** and strip her wife as soon as possible, to present her to Joel.

===

That was how Jillian didn’t notice Brielle’s distress when she returned home. She was much too busy cooking Brielle a potato soup for dinner. She didn’t press Brielle for anything but surface details of her day as she cooked, and then when Brielle left to change out of her work clothes, Jillian added two condoms of Joel’s cum to Brielle’s soup, along with a strong dose of the tranquilisers she had been using to send Brielle to an early sleep.

When Brielle returned, she was changed into loose tracksuit pants and a blouse - not very sexy, but then (thought Jillian) she wouldn’t be wearing them for very long, anyway. Jillian put Brielle’s soup in front of her at the table, and then sat, sipping tiny amounts of her own (clean) soup, while watching Brielle eat her cum and **** with a mixture of envy (after all, *Jillian* wasn’t allowed to taste Joel’s cum at the moment) and trepidation (was she really knocking her wife **** so a man could violate her?).

Brielle was halfway through her soup, when she looked up at Jillian with an odd expression on her face, and said, “Today at church, the pastor did something… well, it’s my own fault, really…”

Jillian felt her heart jump. Pastor George had done something? To Brielle? Was she finally going to be proved right about the pastor’s intentions?

“What happened, honey?” asked Jillian.

But Brielle’s eyes were already beginning to glaze over as the **** took their effect.

“One of the congregation came in,” she said. “Michael Bruherd, who I suppose is attractive, not that I’m a good judge of men. He’s young and fit, anyway. And Pastor George saw me looking at Michael, from a distance, and the pastor came up behind me, and he… he cupped my breast in his hand. To see if my nipple was hard, like from arousal.”

Jillian’s mouth fell open. This was it - what she had been sure would happen to Jillian. “Oh fuck!” she gasped. “Brielle…”

“He said any good straight woman would be aroused by a man like Michael,” said Brielle. “He said I needed to try harder to not be a lesbian. He told me to ask him for help.”

Her eyes were drooping closed now. Her body was sagging. Jillian got out of her chair to move to Brielle’s side, because any moment now Brielle was going to fall face forwards into her soup.

“I felt so guilty, Jillian,” murmured Brielle sleepily. “Because I lied to him and told him I was straight now. I got the job at the church because I lied. I didn’t know what to say.”

Jillian got a grip on Brielle’s shoulders and pulled her back upright so that she was leaning back against her chair instead of falling forwards.

“So what did you say?” she whispered, fearing the answer.

“I was a bad girl, Jillian,” slurred Brielle, her head lolling to the side. “I asked him to help me…”

And that was all she said, because after that she was asleep, soundly ****, tranquilised into a dreaming, insensible state that she would not awake from until morning.

Jillian looked at her wife, with a storm of conflicting emotions raging inside her. Brielle had been groped - molested - at church by the pastor, just as Jillian had known she would be. The perverted old bastard had squeezed her wife’s tit. But instead of jerking away, crying out, slapping him, and storming out, Brielle had - what? Asked for the pastor’s help to stop being a lesbian? Implied that it was not only acceptable, but appreciated, for the pastor to grope her boobs to test whether she was sexually aroused?

Was Brielle really a lesbian? Or had her pussy gotten wet when the dirty old goat at the church had groped her? Had she been shocked and violated - or had she made a slutty little moan and leaned back against the pastor’s warm, male chest, giving him better access to her cleavage?

I was a bad girl, Jillian, she had confessed. How bad?

She considered the idea of aborting the original plan for the night. She should find out what had really happened to Brielle. She should let her wife sleep, untroubled, and then have a long talk with her in the morning about the real nature of Pastor George. They should solve this thing together.

But Joel would be disappointed. He might think Jillian had gotten cold feet on their relationship generally (and never mind that Jillian, a married lesbian, should certainly not have a “relationship” of any kind with a man). She would not get to wear Joel’s outfit - or his collar. She would not get to taste Joel’s cock.

And this wouldn’t harm Brielle. It wouldn’t change anything. She’d feel exactly the same way in the morning whether Joel played with her body in her sleep or not. They could still have the conversation.

And anyway - I was a bad girl, Jillian.

Didn’t the little slut *deserve* this? For attending a homophobic church? For enabling the vile old pastor and his ****? For refusing to hear the truth about her religion and its priest from her own wife?

Jillian was going to go through with it. And that was a rational decision, she told herself, that had nothing to do with her throbby, wet, needy pussy.

She dragged Brielle to the bedroom, feeling grateful that her wife had such a slight and small figure. She sat Brielle on the edge of the bed, and pulled off the blouse and trackpants that Brielle had dressed in only a half-hour earlier. Her wife was wearing no underwear, which was often her habit during “casual time” around the house. She laid Brielle’s naked body on the bed, her head resting on the pillows, her naked breasts pointing at the ceiling.

Lying like that, nude, exposed, sleeping, Jillian thought Brielle no longer looked quite like the wife she had married, but rather like an object, a doll, a passive sex-toy.

Joel would like it, she was sure.

She now stripped, and put on the outfit Joel had sent her. There was no underwear, and when she put on the skirt and felt how it hung directly against her nude buttocks and vulva, she briefly thought about adding some of her own panties. If she were out in public, a medium wind could easily tease the skirt aside and expose her cunt to the world.

But she wasn’t in public, and there was no wind, and she knew what Joel wanted. She went without panties.

When she was dressed, she looked at herself in the mirror, and blushed. She looked expensive. She looked like a whore. She looked like an expensive whore. A decoration - but not a cheap one. Arm candy - but a trophy, not mere trash.

It felt humiliating - but in a good way.

And lastly there was the matter of the collar. She fitted it around her neck, and almost gasped with arousal as she felt the leather tighten at her throat. She wished it were Joel putting it on her. She wished it was his hands drawing it tight against her, almost **** her.

“Pet” read the collar, and yes, she wanted to be a pet. *His* pet.

She looked back at Brielle, and a thought crossed her mind. Her wife didn’t just look like an object - she looked like a **** victim. And that word, ****, stuck in her mind just then.

Wasn’t that what she was doing? Arranging for Brielle to be ****? Sure, Joel’s cock wouldn’t go in her pussy - but they had discussed putting it in her mouth, and letting Joel feel Brielle’s cunt with his own hands.

Jillian’s hands trembled at her throat. She should take off the collar. She should pull the plug on all of this. She should stop playing whatever sexy game this was with Joel, and focus on her wife, who she loved.

But Joel wasn’t a ****. He had been so kind, so consensual with Jillian at every step of their journey towards… whatever their relationship was. He was good to her - and he had been good to Brielle, with his money, even if Brielle didn’t know. This wouldn’t hurt Brielle. Brielle would never know. And really, Brielle *owed* Joel this, after all the money Joel had given them to pay their bills. The real injustice would be to let Brielle benefit from all that money and never give Joel anything in return.

She looked at her wife’s naked body, and pictured Joel playing it. She pictured Joel pushing his cock into Brielle’s mouth. Then she imagined it was *her* laying there, nude, sleeping, as Joel explored her body, and used her mouth as a masturbatory aid.

She moaned. The wonder of this skirt was that it was *very* easy to access her pussy. And she had half an hour until Joel was scheduled to arrive.

So she lowered her hand to her cunt, and began to masturbate.

She wouldn’t let herself cum, of course. They hadn’t explicitly discussed it, but cumming before Joel even got to the house felt… impolite. She should wait for him. She should wait for his… permission.

And so she brought herself to the edge of orgasm, and then stopped, and then continued again, edging, making herself hornier and hornier but denying herself relief.

When the knock finally came at the door - right on the dot of 9 pm - she was so wet and flushed that she could scarcely think straight. She felt sure she must smell of sex, and felt her body fill with embarrassment and shame.

She should ignore the knock. Joel would just leave, and her wife wouldn’t get ****, and Jillian wouldn’t do something nasty and evil. Or she should answer the door, but remove the collar, and Joel would know that she had had second thoughts, and leave.

She brought her fingers to her mouth and licked them. They tasted good, thick with the taste of her arousal and her fuck-honey. And yet, she knew they wouldn’t taste as good as Joel’s cum would, when she received her reward for selling her wife to him.

She rose, her nipples hard, her cunt wet, and her throat firmly and appropriately collared, and went to answer the door.

(TO BE CONTINUED)