Hello, gang. Hope all is well. It's been ages since I've posted any new stories, but I've been writing lately. I'm working on a cuckold book, but I have other stories which I don't think I've posted anywhere. Here's one, called "Brownie Points." c.w. I kowtow at the foot of the bed, knees scraped from shuffling back and forth across the rough carpet, arms trembling as I do my best to hold the jumbo-sized pitcher of ice water steady. My back, caned only hours earlier, screams with pain. Every muscle feels like mud. But I block it all out. I'm floating. All I see is them, swimming in the silk sheets. I smell them ...hear them ...feel them. They don't often allow me to watch them make love, and I absorb every molecule. They're so beautiful together, my wife and her lover, kissing, caressing, pushing, pulling, sucking, humping, fucking, fucking, fucking. I watch his ass bump up and down, side to side, then a hoola-hoop circle, as hairy balls slap velvet thighs, headboard banging against the wall, a jackhammer's cadence: Thwap! Thwap! Thwap! Thwap! And moans; his and hers, masculine and feminine, yin and yang. High-pitched, girly squeals. Angry animal growls. The bed stops rocking and he snaps back at me: "Water." It sounds more like "Wrr." I scoot on my knees across the carpet, rubbing my skin even rawer. When I get to their bedside, Master turns his head my way. I lift the pitcher until the straw is close to his mouth, making sure to respectfully avert his gaze. He leans over, takes a long sip, burps slightly, and returns to my beautiful wife, burying his nose in her soft blonde hair. As he nibbles her earlobe, I unobtrusively scoot back to the foot of their bed again. I'm supposed to have my eyes to the carpet, but I can't help peeking up every now and then. Master pulls out of my wife and rolls over on his back. "You get on top," he says. Marsha snaps her fingers in my direction. "Water." I scurry as fast as I can to her bedside, ignoring the fire in my kneecaps. She snatches the pitcher from me and takes a sip. "More ice," she says. "Yes, Mistress." Remaining on my knees, I shuffle out of the bedroom until I'm out of sight; then I rise and trot to the kitchen to refill the pitcher. Before I reenter their bedroom, I set the water on the carpet and rub my raw wounds for a few seconds. Then, with a sigh, I kneel and shuffle back into the bedroom and to the foot of their bed, where I remain still with my head bowed, holding up the pitcher while Marsha rides Jeff's cock. Most nights while they fuck, I'm required to kneel facing the wall until they need a drink, towel, joint, lighter, lotion, toe-suck, rim job, or whatever. But I earned 10 brownie points this week, just enough to pay for the honor of watching them. The brownie point system was Marsha's idea. I have to do extra things for them in order to earn the points. What makes it difficult is, points must be earned by doing things above and beyond my normal duties of waiting on them hand and foot, cleaning the house, and serving as their whipping boy. If I scrub the house spotless top to bottom, fall all over myself to please them and, kiss their ass, it won't earn any brownie points — I'm supposed to do all that anyway. So brownie points don't come every easy. And, making it worse, they're awarded or taken away at the slightest whim. The goal posts always change; a favor that earned a brownie point one week is ignored the following week. Or, if they're in a bad mood, they'll take away brownie points for the slightest infraction. That's what happened two weeks ago.