My wife and I had moved into a one hundred year old colonial in Bretencourt Manor in November of 2020. It was our dream home, with room to entertain, an open floor plan, and plenty of nooks and crannies and character you could enjoy in a house of this age. The previous owners consistently updated but in a style that kept the old world charm to the house. A lot of carved wood, ornate details, and stain glassed windows. It was also fifty thousand dollars under our budget. Our agent went through the house multiple times with different experts, but could never find any reason why it was priced so low.

But we did.

We were only in the neighborhood for 10 months, but as the newest couple, our HOA stipulated that during the annual party they held every autumn, each house on the block was responsible for some form of hosting and planning and supplying. Some households were responsible for grilling hotdogs and hamburgers, some for baking sweets, others were responsible for more mundane things like setting out recycling bins and trash cans, or contacting the local authorities to block off the road. Typical jobs, my wife and I we're a perfect pair at tackling something together, be it learning how to install a ceiling fan, or weeding and bedding a garden.

The morning of the party, without knowing what we were responsible for, I reached out to the head of our HOA. Fifteen minutes later she was in our living room with a rolling cart of considerable size.

I found out exactly what our duty was

My arms were sealed into an armbinder, fusing my elbows together. It was black and shiny and adorned with belts and buckles for bondage abundance. It pairs well with the matching black latex hood (so I was told by Miss Stephens, the HOA President). It fit me like a second skin and turns my well maintained eyebrows, perfect teeth, hazel eyed adorable face into a featureless black mass. The zipper over my lips allows my mouth and lips and tongue to be free when called upon. I was told that when a hand is placed upon my hooded head and a set of fingers unzips the mouth portion, I am to immediately open my mouth and stick my tongue out as an invite and presentation.

The collar is leather and locked on. From the front of it a pair of chains dangle down my chest and end at each of my nipples where metal clamps bite down with a hunger upon my flesh, my petite but perky tits showcased moreso by the forward thrust afforded to them by the armbinder. Miss Stephens' soft touch and lavender perfume infiltrated my mind as she prepared me for the party.

My waist is hugged by an underbust corset (cinched tight by the woman) and a metal chastity belt. Custom fitted and locked between my legs. After all, this is simply a blowjob uniform. My feet are forced into ballet boots, a bevy of straps keep my calves pressed against my thighs. I can shift my weight from side to side but for my time as the blow job unit as I was being referred to. I am left upon my knees and ass.

My wife was in a similar uniform. The black hood she wears ends below her nose, but a metal spider gag forces her mouth wide open and unable to shut. This allowed her to use her tongue only, or to be subjected to a face fucking as Miss Stephens called it.

Her collar is locking and leather and strict. Heavier and thicker than mine so that it forces a "perfect posture for a blow job". Again, so we were told.

The rest of her body is sealed into skin tight latex that is shined to perfection. The bolero strait jacket that Miss Stephens chose for my wife leaves the shiny, faux-globed breast forms open for groping and slapping, the matching underbust corset cinched tight gives him support and a more pronounced voluptuous feminine figure to drive home the drone-like look we both sport.

Her own chastity device is also metal and is the only portion of flesh one can view between us aside from our obedient mouths when called upon. It twitches and drips and leaks when were in use. The woman preparing us was surprised to find my wife was trans, and promptly went into her suitcase to find a preferred chastity cage.

Her ballet boots match mine, as does the black inflatable plugs we both sport deep in our holes. The inability to deflate them is a gift and a curse. Miss Stephenson is adamant that nobody breaks the rules of The 25th annual Bretencourt BBQ and Block Party, and that we are solely used for blowjobs and pussy worshipping, and nothing else, is that understood, you two?

"The guests expect to get their fifty thousand dollars worth today!"

(Hello all! Fun little idea I had. Feel free to fire away!

I am open to playing both my wife and I, or if you're interested I can play myself - Olivia - and the guests and you can play my wife - Megan.

Let me know who you want to steer in your reply!)