Raven's Wild Weekend
By OldTUGger
The following is a collaboration between Raven, a talented writer I met on FetLife, and me. We hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed writing it.
Part 1
Him
The clock reads 5:59 p.m. as I run through the checklist one last time.
Food for an entire weekend? Stocked away in the pantry and the fridge. House? Reasonably neat and tidy. Air conditioning? Set at a temperature Raven should find comfortable. Toys and accessories? Neatly arranged and ready for use. I smile.
The sound of gravel crunching in the driveway signals your arrival. I stand by the front door but do not open it.
Play it cool, Jay. She’s agreed to be your slavegirl for a weekend. Don’t act too eager; let her come to you.
I hear your car door close. Your heels click-click as you climb the front steps and cross the flagstone porch.
The doorbell rings.
“Well done, Raven. You’re right on time, just as a good little slavegirl should be,” I call through the still-closed front door. “In the small box to the right of the door you will find three items. Please put them on, then ring the doorbell again.”
Her
Your voice reverberates deeply through the door, and I'm a little put out that I don't get a face-to-face greeting. Throughout our long online correspondence, we'd often spoken through voice chat, but never with video. I have no idea what you even look like, and my heart is racing at the whole absurdity of what I'm getting myself into. I've never done anything like this before. I am well aware of the risks -- evidenced by the adrenaline now pumping through me -- but my excitement overrules any caution the more sensible part of me wants to heed.
I look into the box for the items you mentioned, my pulse somehow quickening further as I turn them over in my hands. The three items are a collar, a gag, and a blindfold. It seems you want to take this mind-fuck all the way -- how long would it be before I finally get to look upon your face, to look into the eyes of the man who'd so expertly enthralled my sexuality, listened to my deepest desires, and entertained my darkest fantasies?
The gag holds its own meaning: You are not to speak. If I am to wear this, it means there is nothing I can say that you want to hear at this moment. I know there's no point in questioning these items -- these are the terms of my submission, the clauses of our agreement. Accept these, and the weekend of bondage begins. Refuse them, and I might as well turn around and go home.
I begin with the collar. It is a solid steel circlet, about an inch wide and a quarter-inch thick, elegant in its simplicity. There is a hinge at the back and a lock embedded at the front along with a single D-ring. I see no key nearby.
With my hair pulled back in my customary ponytail, the collar fits snugly around my neck, the cool metal inciting goosebumps down my spine. Full body measurements were but one of the many details we'd shared with each over the months; you must have bought this collar to my exact specifications. I'm mildly flattered by this. Encouraged, I fumble with the lock for a moment before a distinctive click informs me that the lock has engaged.
This is it. No turning back. My fate, or at the very least my neck, is sealed, and yours to determine what happens next. A hot flush floods my cheeks.
I pick up the gag next. It's a shiny bright-red ball gag -- my favorite variety of gag, as you know. Not too large, but still large enough that its presence would not be forgotten, and the humiliation of unintelligible mumbles and a constant stream of drool would be guaranteed. Grinning briefly, I pop the rubber ball into my mouth and fasten the straps behind my head.
Finally, the blindfold. I plant my feet firmly on the porch, taking note of my surroundings so that I don't lose my balance in my heels once plunged into darkness. Then I slip the unassuming piece of fabric over my head, flattening it against my eyes. The fading light of dusk diminishes to a complete blackness.
Taking a deep breath, I raise my hand again and reach for the doorbell. After a couple of seconds searching, I find it and press the button.
To be continued
Raven's Wild Weekend (complete) (M/F, NC-17)
Raven's Wild Weekend (complete) (M/F, NC-17)
Last edited by OldTUGger 3 years ago, edited 25 times in total.
Links to all of my stories can be found here in the Story Catalog: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?f=46&t=6023
I like it so far.
Part 2
Him
I open the door.
There, on my doorstep at last, you stand -- hands clasped behind your back, head bowed submissively, your hair a fiery red crown backlit by the late-afternoon sun.
I drink in your beauty for a moment, then reach out a hand and gently lift your chin.
Idiot! I chide myself. You can’t look into her eyes if she’s blindfolded, and you can’t listen to the music of her voice if she’s gagged!
I shake my head, chagrined to be robbed of those delights.
Don’t worry about it, old boy. The weekend has hardly begun. You’ll see plenty of her before it’s done.
The double entendre sparks an internal chuckle. Yes, you’ll see plenty of her. More of her than you’ve seen before, and from most every angle you or she might imagine.
With my other hand, I clip a leash onto the lock that dangles from your collar. “Follow me, Raven. You must step up once to enter the door. The floor is level from then on.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, you step up and enter the foyer. A gentle pull on the leash guides you toward my den. You follow, half a step behind, head bowed, hands still clasped behind your back.
We stop in the center of the den’s hardwood floor.
“Kneel.” You comply. I step behind you, unbuckle the gag and let the straps drop. You hold the ball in your mouth, and I smile. Gently, I reach around and pull out the bright red silicone orb.
I walk around and stand facing you, an arm’s length away.
“Welcome to my home, Raven. For the rest of this weekend, I will refer to you as ‘Sweet Girl.’ You will refer to me as ‘Sir.’ Your first task is to remove your blindfold, look me in the eyes, and tell me why you want to be my slave.”
Her
My mind races as I kneel there in the darkness. Why do I want to be your slave? Because it excites me like nothing else has in recent memory. But why does it excite me so? What do I expect from submitting to you? I hardly know the answers to these questions myself, but now that you've asked, I know I must give a response.
Slowly, with the barest hint of a tremble in my hands, I reach up and remove the blindfold, brushing drool from my lip as I do. My pale blue eyes quickly adjust to the dim light of the den as I find your gaze and hold it.
"I want to be your slave, Sir, because it excites me like nothing else has. To not simply imagine myself in the plight of a submissive, but to experience it, to submit to one who has shone a light on my darkest desires and shown me how much I've been missing. And how much you have yet to show me... I've been able to think of nothing else since we made the arrangements, Sir."
I trail off, realizing I've been babbling, so I begin again, this time focusing on the singular sensation that has me so convinced I'm in the right place.
"I'm messed up, Sir," I say, momentarily averting my eyes. "Then I found out you're messed up, too. And when I think about the sort of mess we'd get into together... It makes me so wet, Sir."
I blush, but manage to maintain eye contact. Arousal has always been a common topic in our online conversations, speaking about what turns me on or what depraved things you imagine doing to me. But now that I'm kneeling here, in plain view, the sexual organ in question scarcely concealed by the thin fabric of my undergarments and pleated miniskirt, to broach the sexual nature of my stay makes me as embarrassed as co-ed after her first time. It is suddenly all too real, unshakably so, and the leash held loosely in your hand is a firm reminder of exactly why I'm here and why I'm presently equal parts terrified and exhilarated.
If you have any doubt of the veracity of my response, I suspect you need simply glance at my pale blue boyshorts, which feel embarrassingly ineffective at concealing the aforementioned wetness. Or else drop a hand to my bust, which even now forms hardened tips as my cupped breasts strain forward against the electric blue sleeveless blouse I donned for the occasion. Or even check my pulse, for my warm throbbing neck would tell you all you need to know.
To be continued
Him
I open the door.
There, on my doorstep at last, you stand -- hands clasped behind your back, head bowed submissively, your hair a fiery red crown backlit by the late-afternoon sun.
I drink in your beauty for a moment, then reach out a hand and gently lift your chin.
Idiot! I chide myself. You can’t look into her eyes if she’s blindfolded, and you can’t listen to the music of her voice if she’s gagged!
I shake my head, chagrined to be robbed of those delights.
Don’t worry about it, old boy. The weekend has hardly begun. You’ll see plenty of her before it’s done.
The double entendre sparks an internal chuckle. Yes, you’ll see plenty of her. More of her than you’ve seen before, and from most every angle you or she might imagine.
With my other hand, I clip a leash onto the lock that dangles from your collar. “Follow me, Raven. You must step up once to enter the door. The floor is level from then on.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, you step up and enter the foyer. A gentle pull on the leash guides you toward my den. You follow, half a step behind, head bowed, hands still clasped behind your back.
We stop in the center of the den’s hardwood floor.
“Kneel.” You comply. I step behind you, unbuckle the gag and let the straps drop. You hold the ball in your mouth, and I smile. Gently, I reach around and pull out the bright red silicone orb.
I walk around and stand facing you, an arm’s length away.
“Welcome to my home, Raven. For the rest of this weekend, I will refer to you as ‘Sweet Girl.’ You will refer to me as ‘Sir.’ Your first task is to remove your blindfold, look me in the eyes, and tell me why you want to be my slave.”
Her
My mind races as I kneel there in the darkness. Why do I want to be your slave? Because it excites me like nothing else has in recent memory. But why does it excite me so? What do I expect from submitting to you? I hardly know the answers to these questions myself, but now that you've asked, I know I must give a response.
Slowly, with the barest hint of a tremble in my hands, I reach up and remove the blindfold, brushing drool from my lip as I do. My pale blue eyes quickly adjust to the dim light of the den as I find your gaze and hold it.
"I want to be your slave, Sir, because it excites me like nothing else has. To not simply imagine myself in the plight of a submissive, but to experience it, to submit to one who has shone a light on my darkest desires and shown me how much I've been missing. And how much you have yet to show me... I've been able to think of nothing else since we made the arrangements, Sir."
I trail off, realizing I've been babbling, so I begin again, this time focusing on the singular sensation that has me so convinced I'm in the right place.
"I'm messed up, Sir," I say, momentarily averting my eyes. "Then I found out you're messed up, too. And when I think about the sort of mess we'd get into together... It makes me so wet, Sir."
I blush, but manage to maintain eye contact. Arousal has always been a common topic in our online conversations, speaking about what turns me on or what depraved things you imagine doing to me. But now that I'm kneeling here, in plain view, the sexual organ in question scarcely concealed by the thin fabric of my undergarments and pleated miniskirt, to broach the sexual nature of my stay makes me as embarrassed as co-ed after her first time. It is suddenly all too real, unshakably so, and the leash held loosely in your hand is a firm reminder of exactly why I'm here and why I'm presently equal parts terrified and exhilarated.
If you have any doubt of the veracity of my response, I suspect you need simply glance at my pale blue boyshorts, which feel embarrassingly ineffective at concealing the aforementioned wetness. Or else drop a hand to my bust, which even now forms hardened tips as my cupped breasts strain forward against the electric blue sleeveless blouse I donned for the occasion. Or even check my pulse, for my warm throbbing neck would tell you all you need to know.
To be continued
Links to all of my stories can be found here in the Story Catalog: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?f=46&t=6023
Part 3
Him
“You’re not messed up, Sweet Girl,” I reply. “You’re right where you want to be. No, make that where you need to be. Your submission fulfills a need you've only recently begun to explore. The world tells you it’s ‘messed up.’ It's not. It comes from within.
“Giving up one’s physical and sexual freedom isn’t easy. For this weekend, your body will be my property to do with as I please. You’ll be kept in physical restraints much of the time. You’ll be given tests of strength, tests of endurance, and tests of will. Proper behavior will be rewarded. Improper behavior will be punished.
“This is your last chance to back out. If you obey my next command, you’re signaling that you’re in, body, mind and soul, for the weekend.
“Now, strip. Fold your clothes neatly and set them off to the side. Then kneel again, legs spread wide apart, torso erect, elbows out, fingers laced behind your head. A good master needs to inspect his property.”
Her
I listen to your response thoughtfully, never doubting for a moment that I'm right where I want to be, but curious to hear your perspective anyway. I've slowly come to terms with my submissive nature, but hold no illusions that this is not how most college girls choose to express their sexuality. Your words underline how my deviancy doesn't necessarily imply brokenness, yet in a strange way I cherish the idea of being twisted in my depravities and reckless in my desires. The idea of being a hot mess, figuratively and literally.
Now for the next two days I'm going to be your hot mess, and I'm thrilled, almost irrationally so. Of course I will strip for you; I'm already committed to this weekend, and have been since you first suggested it. Kept in restraints? Rewards and punishments? Music to my ears.
You do have me in a bit of a quandary, however. Ordinarily when a guy asks me to strip I have no problem putting on a sexy little show for him. But you want my clothes folded neatly, which will require a little more finesse than my usual striptease calls for.
I begin with my blouse, which slips off easily without sleeves to worry about. A small wet patch remains where some drool landed on it, but I ignore this and fold the garment as if it was fresh from the laundry. With my bra creating a generous amount of cleavage, your eyes drop to my chest and I grin slyly.
Next up are my black three-inch pumps. I loosen the strap on each foot and simultaneously tug both heels off, placing them next to the pile of clothes.
My miniskirt goes next. Presently I'm sitting on it, so I lift myself to my knees and slide it down, then rock back again and flick it off into my hands. After folding it neatly I place it on top of my blouse and proceed to unclasp my bra.
Being a practiced hand at this, I release the clasp on the first attempt and shimmy out of the shoulder straps, letting the pale blue underwire bra drop from my breasts. Unable to resist, I cup them briefly in my hands for your benefit, thumbing my erect nipples. The bra then gets folded in half and added to the pile.
Finally only my panties remain, a scrap of fabric that feels woefully under-equipped to hold back the tide of arousal swelling within me, and sure enough, their crotch is noticeably damp. Nevertheless, I wriggle like a caterpillar and to slide them down my legs and add them to the neatly-folded pile. A pile which I realize now contains every last shred of dignity my naked form had possessed.
One last thing occurs to me. I reach up and pull the scrunchie from my hair, allowing my ponytail to drop loose around my shoulders. With the scrunchie added to the pile, I'm now as naked as the day I was born. Well, not quite. A small landing strip of black hair remains below my navel -- I hope you don't mind that I'm not clean-shaven.
Now for the position.
Smiling up at you in the hope that complaisance masks my nerves, I sit up on my ankles, push my knees as wide apart as I comfortably can, interweave my fingers against the back of my head, point my elbows out to the sides, and take a deep breath, puffing my chest up and out.
To be continued...
Him
“You’re not messed up, Sweet Girl,” I reply. “You’re right where you want to be. No, make that where you need to be. Your submission fulfills a need you've only recently begun to explore. The world tells you it’s ‘messed up.’ It's not. It comes from within.
“Giving up one’s physical and sexual freedom isn’t easy. For this weekend, your body will be my property to do with as I please. You’ll be kept in physical restraints much of the time. You’ll be given tests of strength, tests of endurance, and tests of will. Proper behavior will be rewarded. Improper behavior will be punished.
“This is your last chance to back out. If you obey my next command, you’re signaling that you’re in, body, mind and soul, for the weekend.
“Now, strip. Fold your clothes neatly and set them off to the side. Then kneel again, legs spread wide apart, torso erect, elbows out, fingers laced behind your head. A good master needs to inspect his property.”
Her
I listen to your response thoughtfully, never doubting for a moment that I'm right where I want to be, but curious to hear your perspective anyway. I've slowly come to terms with my submissive nature, but hold no illusions that this is not how most college girls choose to express their sexuality. Your words underline how my deviancy doesn't necessarily imply brokenness, yet in a strange way I cherish the idea of being twisted in my depravities and reckless in my desires. The idea of being a hot mess, figuratively and literally.
Now for the next two days I'm going to be your hot mess, and I'm thrilled, almost irrationally so. Of course I will strip for you; I'm already committed to this weekend, and have been since you first suggested it. Kept in restraints? Rewards and punishments? Music to my ears.
You do have me in a bit of a quandary, however. Ordinarily when a guy asks me to strip I have no problem putting on a sexy little show for him. But you want my clothes folded neatly, which will require a little more finesse than my usual striptease calls for.
I begin with my blouse, which slips off easily without sleeves to worry about. A small wet patch remains where some drool landed on it, but I ignore this and fold the garment as if it was fresh from the laundry. With my bra creating a generous amount of cleavage, your eyes drop to my chest and I grin slyly.
Next up are my black three-inch pumps. I loosen the strap on each foot and simultaneously tug both heels off, placing them next to the pile of clothes.
My miniskirt goes next. Presently I'm sitting on it, so I lift myself to my knees and slide it down, then rock back again and flick it off into my hands. After folding it neatly I place it on top of my blouse and proceed to unclasp my bra.
Being a practiced hand at this, I release the clasp on the first attempt and shimmy out of the shoulder straps, letting the pale blue underwire bra drop from my breasts. Unable to resist, I cup them briefly in my hands for your benefit, thumbing my erect nipples. The bra then gets folded in half and added to the pile.
Finally only my panties remain, a scrap of fabric that feels woefully under-equipped to hold back the tide of arousal swelling within me, and sure enough, their crotch is noticeably damp. Nevertheless, I wriggle like a caterpillar and to slide them down my legs and add them to the neatly-folded pile. A pile which I realize now contains every last shred of dignity my naked form had possessed.
One last thing occurs to me. I reach up and pull the scrunchie from my hair, allowing my ponytail to drop loose around my shoulders. With the scrunchie added to the pile, I'm now as naked as the day I was born. Well, not quite. A small landing strip of black hair remains below my navel -- I hope you don't mind that I'm not clean-shaven.
Now for the position.
Smiling up at you in the hope that complaisance masks my nerves, I sit up on my ankles, push my knees as wide apart as I comfortably can, interweave my fingers against the back of my head, point my elbows out to the sides, and take a deep breath, puffing my chest up and out.
To be continued...
Links to all of my stories can be found here in the Story Catalog: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?f=46&t=6023
Part 4
Him
I reach down, hook my middle finger through the ring on your collar and lift your chin with my forefinger. You look up, and as I gaze into the blue-gray depths of your eyes, I see -- what? -- a dwindling touch of fear, a rising tide of anticipation and, as I reach out my other hand and graze the nipple of one fulsome breast, a flood of wanton desire.
“You strip beautifully, Sweet Girl.”
I release your collar and step around you, stroking and admiring your hair. The crimson cascade tumbles onto your shoulders and plunges down your back. I grab a fiery handful and pull your head back roughly. Your eyes, suddenly wide with shock, connect once again with mine.
“Just a reminder of who’s in charge,” I smirk.
I kneel behind you. My left hand grips your hair as my right hand roams your body. You stare helplessly at the ceiling as my fingertips trace the graceful curve of your neck. Your breath quickens as the hand slides downward to your breasts, cupping them, fondling them, massaging your engorged nipples. It quickens yet again as the hand moves downward, sensing the tension in your flat belly and stroking the insides of your thighs. You gasp as my fingers touch the upper end of your landing strip and taxi slowly to the other end. A single finger stretches out and lingers for a minute or two, massaging the glistening folds to the tune of your sighs and moans.
Careful, old boy. It’s not time to send her over the edge just yet...
I ease my hand away from the warm dampness between your thighs and stand, pulling you to your feet as I rise. My left hand, still grasping your hair, yanks your head back again. I lean close, almost nose-to-nose, to make my point: “Now, Sweet Girl, we begin your first lesson for the weekend. As long as you’re my property, your orgasms belong to me.”
Her
A deep blush settles across my cheeks as your words sink in. Property. That's what I am now. My desires matter for naught; it is you who now decides upon my pleasure and pain, you who I must impress if I want any pleasure at all. That long-neglected slave fantasy stirs with delight within me, kindling desire and warming your slave's nether regions to an implacable smolder.
"Yes, Sir," I breathe in response. The words hardly do justice to the yearning anticipation brimming behind my eyes, but the hand tightly gripping my hair suggests to me you want a verbal confirmation that I understand the lesson. Indeed, I understand that you're likely to tease me and drive me wild with desire, and even relish doing so, only to deprive the sweet release of climax and bring me back down for more teasing.
I understand that despite any whining or complaints I'm likely to vocalize, you are unlikely to waver from whatever cunning plans you have for me. I understand and love every bit of this arrangement... though time will tell if I still feel the same by Sunday.
You smile and relax your grip, allowing my flowing red locks to slide through your fingers as my head tilts forward.
With you behind me, my eyes focus on our surroundings for the first time since entering. This is your den, I realize. This is where your tales of devious bondage and sassy submissives all take place -- well, except for the stories of kinky car rides or the camping trips where tents aren't the only things staked to the ground.
I've heard so much about this den, and explored it even further in my imagination. Girls pant and struggle in this den as they fight losing battles against elaborate restraints. Physical limits are tested and stretched in this den as even the most flexible girls struggle to hold the positions you bind them in. Classy women are reduced to screaming sluts in this den all with the power of a few experienced fingers and the occasional vibrator. Fantasies come to life in this den, and with any luck mine are next.
I'm mildly surprised, then, to see that the den itself isn't much to look at. Oh, there's the obligatory bondage frames and a wall arrayed with whips and floggers and ample suspension points bolted into the walls and roof, even a faint lingering aroma of sweat and arousal, but nothing to celebrate the room's role in fulfilling so many depraved kinks.
It is my conclusion, then, that it's not the toys or the equipment that make this den what it is, but the mind of the man who owns it. The man who now stands right behind me, his hands exploring my nude form and twisting my hair, his intentions perpetually a mystery that both scares and excites me.
To be continued...
Him
I reach down, hook my middle finger through the ring on your collar and lift your chin with my forefinger. You look up, and as I gaze into the blue-gray depths of your eyes, I see -- what? -- a dwindling touch of fear, a rising tide of anticipation and, as I reach out my other hand and graze the nipple of one fulsome breast, a flood of wanton desire.
“You strip beautifully, Sweet Girl.”
I release your collar and step around you, stroking and admiring your hair. The crimson cascade tumbles onto your shoulders and plunges down your back. I grab a fiery handful and pull your head back roughly. Your eyes, suddenly wide with shock, connect once again with mine.
“Just a reminder of who’s in charge,” I smirk.
I kneel behind you. My left hand grips your hair as my right hand roams your body. You stare helplessly at the ceiling as my fingertips trace the graceful curve of your neck. Your breath quickens as the hand slides downward to your breasts, cupping them, fondling them, massaging your engorged nipples. It quickens yet again as the hand moves downward, sensing the tension in your flat belly and stroking the insides of your thighs. You gasp as my fingers touch the upper end of your landing strip and taxi slowly to the other end. A single finger stretches out and lingers for a minute or two, massaging the glistening folds to the tune of your sighs and moans.
Careful, old boy. It’s not time to send her over the edge just yet...
I ease my hand away from the warm dampness between your thighs and stand, pulling you to your feet as I rise. My left hand, still grasping your hair, yanks your head back again. I lean close, almost nose-to-nose, to make my point: “Now, Sweet Girl, we begin your first lesson for the weekend. As long as you’re my property, your orgasms belong to me.”
Her
A deep blush settles across my cheeks as your words sink in. Property. That's what I am now. My desires matter for naught; it is you who now decides upon my pleasure and pain, you who I must impress if I want any pleasure at all. That long-neglected slave fantasy stirs with delight within me, kindling desire and warming your slave's nether regions to an implacable smolder.
"Yes, Sir," I breathe in response. The words hardly do justice to the yearning anticipation brimming behind my eyes, but the hand tightly gripping my hair suggests to me you want a verbal confirmation that I understand the lesson. Indeed, I understand that you're likely to tease me and drive me wild with desire, and even relish doing so, only to deprive the sweet release of climax and bring me back down for more teasing.
I understand that despite any whining or complaints I'm likely to vocalize, you are unlikely to waver from whatever cunning plans you have for me. I understand and love every bit of this arrangement... though time will tell if I still feel the same by Sunday.
You smile and relax your grip, allowing my flowing red locks to slide through your fingers as my head tilts forward.
With you behind me, my eyes focus on our surroundings for the first time since entering. This is your den, I realize. This is where your tales of devious bondage and sassy submissives all take place -- well, except for the stories of kinky car rides or the camping trips where tents aren't the only things staked to the ground.
I've heard so much about this den, and explored it even further in my imagination. Girls pant and struggle in this den as they fight losing battles against elaborate restraints. Physical limits are tested and stretched in this den as even the most flexible girls struggle to hold the positions you bind them in. Classy women are reduced to screaming sluts in this den all with the power of a few experienced fingers and the occasional vibrator. Fantasies come to life in this den, and with any luck mine are next.
I'm mildly surprised, then, to see that the den itself isn't much to look at. Oh, there's the obligatory bondage frames and a wall arrayed with whips and floggers and ample suspension points bolted into the walls and roof, even a faint lingering aroma of sweat and arousal, but nothing to celebrate the room's role in fulfilling so many depraved kinks.
It is my conclusion, then, that it's not the toys or the equipment that make this den what it is, but the mind of the man who owns it. The man who now stands right behind me, his hands exploring my nude form and twisting my hair, his intentions perpetually a mystery that both scares and excites me.
To be continued...
Links to all of my stories can be found here in the Story Catalog: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?f=46&t=6023
Part 5
Him
Still grasping your hair, albeit not as roughly, I walk you out of the den, down a hallway and down a flight of steps to my basement.
“I saw you checking out the apparatus in the den,” I say. “We may yet use some of those things, but this first lesson requires some rather specialized equipment.”
From a hook on the wall, I retrieve a leather blindfold and strap it over your eyes. More leather follows: Cuffs adorn your wrists. A thick belt encircles your waist. A harness gag muffles any protests you might seek to lodge.
I guide you to the other side of the room. “Stand here. Spread your feet about shoulder-width apart. A little wider...good. Now step forward about a foot.”
Somewhere below, you hear the sound of metal sliding against metal. Something presses at the lips of your still-wet sex.
“Spread your feet just a bit wider. There.” The stainless-steel dildo slides into you easily, deeply. I walk behind you and, with locks and a short length of chain, lock your wrist cuffs together and tether them to your collar. Your fingers flutter uselessly against your shoulder blades.
“Now place your legs back together.” You comply, and discover that the dildo seems to be mounted atop an adjustable steel pole, no doubt bolted to the concrete floor. Your suspicion is confirmed when I buckle thick leather straps around your thighs and ankles, welding your legs to the pole’s cold steel. You shift your weight front-to-back, side-to-side, as far as the straps and the stainless intruder will allow. Nothing moves.
I circle around to the front and kneel, attaching with thumbscrews a final component to the front of the pole, high between your thighs. As the screws tighten, you feel a rubbery ball being pushed ever more forcefully against your pleasure center.
“Now, Sweet Girl, your first test of will and endurance begins. The object inside you is a remotely controlled vibrating phallus. The object pressing against your crotch is a Hitachi, also remotely controlled. I have the controls to both. For the next hour, I'll amuse myself by toying with these controls, intensifying and diminishing the amount of pleasure you feel.”
I stroll to a nearby easy chair and make myself comfortable.
“Your job, Sweet Girl, is to finish that hour without having an orgasm. Your test begins right…now.”
Her
I yelp into the gag as you spin the controls to full power and back to announce the start of the challenge. This dildo is unlike anything I've ever used -- cold, unyielding, though the former state is quickly being reversed by the steamy folds of my sex. I've never felt anything so hard inside me, and it's a vibrator too? I don't stand a chance.
I slowly begin to fidget, exploring the limits of my bondage without wanting to seem too concerned at my helplessness. Opening and closing my fingers, I try to reach my opposite wrist to release the cuff, or my collar to unhook the chain, but the cuffs are locked on tight and my muscles cramp before I can reach my neck. I sway back and forth, but my stocky legs are too firmly strapped to the pole.
There is little hope of escaping even without these extra restrains, I realize. The pole and dildo essentially form a one-bar prison, a device that has so often fascinated me in my online wanderings -- if the dildo were simply raised a fraction higher I'd be forced to my tiptoes, and without any nearby support I would be well and truly fucked.
Already the dildo splits me open like no man ever has, and…
You tweak the controls and I yelp in alarm, my upper body rocking back and forth. The dildo within me has been set to a low rumble, its hum filling the dungeon. It probably isn't even a particularly powerful setting, but with the device already stretching me open and pressing against every part of my sensitive flesh the vibrations roll right through me, awakening every kinky thought and desire.
Then the Hitachi vibrator buzzes to life and the fire within me is really kindled. With two whirring vibrators pressing into me the tell-tale burn of arousal grows swiftly on the way to a climax. I lift myself to my tiptoes, momentarily escaping the seat of stimulation. While I can't fully escape the metal dildo, here I'm at least able to take long, slow breaths and force myself back down the pyramid of arousal. But I'm fighting against the straps and my own muscles to stay here, and soon I can't help but drop back to the buzzing twins, the dildo reclaiming its nook deep inside my sex.
With the blindfold stealing my vision, my full attention is inexorably drawn to the sensations down below. My arousal grows and wanes as my calves get an increasingly-painful workout. Sometimes it takes every ounce of self-control I possess to stay screaming at the edge of orgasm, and there are moments when I am positive I'll soon be discovering how you punish disobedient slaves, yet somehow I manage to cling on, screams of pleasure mixing with screams of pain and frustration as I wail at the unfairness of my plight.
After a time struggling up and down I become lost in my own world, a world of pervading darkness and inescapable pleasure. Struggling to remain at the edge of climax without falling in, I've lost all sense of the passage of time. Has it been seconds, minutes, hours? Would you even stop me after the hour if you were having too much fun?
From time to time I feel the vibrators' intensity change and I'm reminded of your silent presence, sitting there, watching, tweaking the controls as one might for the TV, a sly grin no doubt prevailing your features.
I struggle on in darkness, fighting for control of my cresting arousal, but ultimately enslaved to your whim.
To be continued...
Him
Still grasping your hair, albeit not as roughly, I walk you out of the den, down a hallway and down a flight of steps to my basement.
“I saw you checking out the apparatus in the den,” I say. “We may yet use some of those things, but this first lesson requires some rather specialized equipment.”
From a hook on the wall, I retrieve a leather blindfold and strap it over your eyes. More leather follows: Cuffs adorn your wrists. A thick belt encircles your waist. A harness gag muffles any protests you might seek to lodge.
I guide you to the other side of the room. “Stand here. Spread your feet about shoulder-width apart. A little wider...good. Now step forward about a foot.”
Somewhere below, you hear the sound of metal sliding against metal. Something presses at the lips of your still-wet sex.
“Spread your feet just a bit wider. There.” The stainless-steel dildo slides into you easily, deeply. I walk behind you and, with locks and a short length of chain, lock your wrist cuffs together and tether them to your collar. Your fingers flutter uselessly against your shoulder blades.
“Now place your legs back together.” You comply, and discover that the dildo seems to be mounted atop an adjustable steel pole, no doubt bolted to the concrete floor. Your suspicion is confirmed when I buckle thick leather straps around your thighs and ankles, welding your legs to the pole’s cold steel. You shift your weight front-to-back, side-to-side, as far as the straps and the stainless intruder will allow. Nothing moves.
I circle around to the front and kneel, attaching with thumbscrews a final component to the front of the pole, high between your thighs. As the screws tighten, you feel a rubbery ball being pushed ever more forcefully against your pleasure center.
“Now, Sweet Girl, your first test of will and endurance begins. The object inside you is a remotely controlled vibrating phallus. The object pressing against your crotch is a Hitachi, also remotely controlled. I have the controls to both. For the next hour, I'll amuse myself by toying with these controls, intensifying and diminishing the amount of pleasure you feel.”
I stroll to a nearby easy chair and make myself comfortable.
“Your job, Sweet Girl, is to finish that hour without having an orgasm. Your test begins right…now.”
Her
I yelp into the gag as you spin the controls to full power and back to announce the start of the challenge. This dildo is unlike anything I've ever used -- cold, unyielding, though the former state is quickly being reversed by the steamy folds of my sex. I've never felt anything so hard inside me, and it's a vibrator too? I don't stand a chance.
I slowly begin to fidget, exploring the limits of my bondage without wanting to seem too concerned at my helplessness. Opening and closing my fingers, I try to reach my opposite wrist to release the cuff, or my collar to unhook the chain, but the cuffs are locked on tight and my muscles cramp before I can reach my neck. I sway back and forth, but my stocky legs are too firmly strapped to the pole.
There is little hope of escaping even without these extra restrains, I realize. The pole and dildo essentially form a one-bar prison, a device that has so often fascinated me in my online wanderings -- if the dildo were simply raised a fraction higher I'd be forced to my tiptoes, and without any nearby support I would be well and truly fucked.
Already the dildo splits me open like no man ever has, and…
You tweak the controls and I yelp in alarm, my upper body rocking back and forth. The dildo within me has been set to a low rumble, its hum filling the dungeon. It probably isn't even a particularly powerful setting, but with the device already stretching me open and pressing against every part of my sensitive flesh the vibrations roll right through me, awakening every kinky thought and desire.
Then the Hitachi vibrator buzzes to life and the fire within me is really kindled. With two whirring vibrators pressing into me the tell-tale burn of arousal grows swiftly on the way to a climax. I lift myself to my tiptoes, momentarily escaping the seat of stimulation. While I can't fully escape the metal dildo, here I'm at least able to take long, slow breaths and force myself back down the pyramid of arousal. But I'm fighting against the straps and my own muscles to stay here, and soon I can't help but drop back to the buzzing twins, the dildo reclaiming its nook deep inside my sex.
With the blindfold stealing my vision, my full attention is inexorably drawn to the sensations down below. My arousal grows and wanes as my calves get an increasingly-painful workout. Sometimes it takes every ounce of self-control I possess to stay screaming at the edge of orgasm, and there are moments when I am positive I'll soon be discovering how you punish disobedient slaves, yet somehow I manage to cling on, screams of pleasure mixing with screams of pain and frustration as I wail at the unfairness of my plight.
After a time struggling up and down I become lost in my own world, a world of pervading darkness and inescapable pleasure. Struggling to remain at the edge of climax without falling in, I've lost all sense of the passage of time. Has it been seconds, minutes, hours? Would you even stop me after the hour if you were having too much fun?
From time to time I feel the vibrators' intensity change and I'm reminded of your silent presence, sitting there, watching, tweaking the controls as one might for the TV, a sly grin no doubt prevailing your features.
I struggle on in darkness, fighting for control of my cresting arousal, but ultimately enslaved to your whim.
To be continued...
Links to all of my stories can be found here in the Story Catalog: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?f=46&t=6023
Part 6
Him
I play your body like a violin, from a relaxed largo to a frenetic allegro, from a moaning piano to a shrieking fortissimo.
Reclined in my chair, I both orchestrate and watch the show. Sometimes when I sense I’ve pushed you too close to the edge, I dial down the knobs and allow you to settle a bit. At other times when you’re close, I challenge your resolve by firewalling the controls.
Your upper body writhes and stiffens, seeking relief from the unrelenting stimuli -- the cramps in your bound arms, the ache in your ball-stretched jaw, the shaft keening away in the tumescent confines of your sex, the Hitachi sending lightning bolts of sensation through your engorged clitoris.
I glance at the clock on the wall. Has it really been an hour? I stand and walk to your side. With an impish grin, I crank both controls to their maximum settings. You throw your head back, clench your fists and once again force your burning calves to lift you onto your toes. Your guttural moans morph into a panicked, high-pitched squeal.
I switch off the vibrators. It’s like cutting the strings of a marionette. You slump limply into your bonds. Sweat drips from your nose. Your breath comes in ragged gasps.
“Well done, Sweet Girl,” I whisper into your ear. “You’ve earned a reward.”
I release the straps around your thighs and ankles. Then, supporting your upper body with one arm, I slowly disengage the dildo and Hitachi. Your legs quiver, and you collapse onto my shoulder. I lift you into my arms.
“You’ve had a bit of a workout. A soak in the hot tub is just what you need.”
I carry you onto the back patio, deposit you into the steaming spa and unbuckle the harness-gag.
“Don’t worry. I have a privacy fence. No one can see you here. Relax and enjoy yourself while I fix us a bite to eat.”
I walk away a couple of steps, only to spin on one heel and return. “I just about forgot. Hold your hands still.”
I step behind you, and you feel a thick zip-tie being looped around your thumbs. I pull it snug – just tight enough to be inescapable, but not nearly tight enough to hurt.
You open your mouth as if to speak, but I hush you with a finger on your lips.
“We’ll talk later, as we eat. Think about what you’ve experienced so far. Gather those thoughts. You never know when you might be quizzed about them.”
Her
I grunt and pull at my wrists in discomfort, trying to relax despite my bunched shoulders. The zip-tie feels wholly unnecessary -- my wrists are already cuffed and chained to my collar, and now the additional zip-tie removes what little movement I had and locks my arms in a reverse-prayer position. Eventually they might cramp and burn with discomfort, but for now the position is more a nuisance owing to what it prevents me from doing.
Forcing my muscles to loosen, I slump back in the tub and slide down until only my head protrudes above the steamy water. I want so badly to slip a finger down between my legs, into the folds of hypersensitive flesh still tingling below, and claim what was denied to me for a whole torturous hour. I squeeze my thighs together in need, rub them back and forth, even thrash my hips around briefly trying to use the water rushing past me as stimulation, but without my dexterous fingers my efforts are for naught.
I open my mouth and take a deep breath, releasing it in an even longer sigh. What is it about men and denying their girl her orgasm? And what is it about girls that we so willingly hand ourselves over into the sadistic clutches of such men? I could be relaxing at home right now, in my own bath, or in front of my favorite porn, my fingers quite unrestrained and free to assist in any way I desire. But instead I chose to come here, to an uncertain future extending for a whole two days - two days which could be hell if I'm constantly edged without relief.
As is always the case after I've been thoroughly stretched open, I can still feel the device inside me, more a memory than a tangible sensation, but still enough to torment me with its absence. Vibrations that powerful don't just stop when you flick the switch; the nerves they awaken refuse to go back to sleep. The feeling of stimulation lingers just out of reach, teasing me with the pleasure that could have been.
But as the warmth of the spa washes over me, soothing every part of my aching body, my mind turns towards more comforting thoughts. I wonder what we'll be eating. We've never talked about that side of you -- the side that doesn't spend all his time binding girls tightly. The side that cooks, and plays music, and practices photography. I know you do these things, but beyond that, you remain a mystery. My interest has always been drawn towards your kinkier activities, almost to the point of selfishness, I realize guiltily.
Whatever it is, I hope you release my arms so I can enjoy it. The thought of been spoon-fed, or worse, eating directly from a bowl, is one that fills me with unfathomable embarrassment. I'm not a baby or a dog, even if I do sometimes whine for attention.
To be continued...
Him
I play your body like a violin, from a relaxed largo to a frenetic allegro, from a moaning piano to a shrieking fortissimo.
Reclined in my chair, I both orchestrate and watch the show. Sometimes when I sense I’ve pushed you too close to the edge, I dial down the knobs and allow you to settle a bit. At other times when you’re close, I challenge your resolve by firewalling the controls.
Your upper body writhes and stiffens, seeking relief from the unrelenting stimuli -- the cramps in your bound arms, the ache in your ball-stretched jaw, the shaft keening away in the tumescent confines of your sex, the Hitachi sending lightning bolts of sensation through your engorged clitoris.
I glance at the clock on the wall. Has it really been an hour? I stand and walk to your side. With an impish grin, I crank both controls to their maximum settings. You throw your head back, clench your fists and once again force your burning calves to lift you onto your toes. Your guttural moans morph into a panicked, high-pitched squeal.
I switch off the vibrators. It’s like cutting the strings of a marionette. You slump limply into your bonds. Sweat drips from your nose. Your breath comes in ragged gasps.
“Well done, Sweet Girl,” I whisper into your ear. “You’ve earned a reward.”
I release the straps around your thighs and ankles. Then, supporting your upper body with one arm, I slowly disengage the dildo and Hitachi. Your legs quiver, and you collapse onto my shoulder. I lift you into my arms.
“You’ve had a bit of a workout. A soak in the hot tub is just what you need.”
I carry you onto the back patio, deposit you into the steaming spa and unbuckle the harness-gag.
“Don’t worry. I have a privacy fence. No one can see you here. Relax and enjoy yourself while I fix us a bite to eat.”
I walk away a couple of steps, only to spin on one heel and return. “I just about forgot. Hold your hands still.”
I step behind you, and you feel a thick zip-tie being looped around your thumbs. I pull it snug – just tight enough to be inescapable, but not nearly tight enough to hurt.
You open your mouth as if to speak, but I hush you with a finger on your lips.
“We’ll talk later, as we eat. Think about what you’ve experienced so far. Gather those thoughts. You never know when you might be quizzed about them.”
Her
I grunt and pull at my wrists in discomfort, trying to relax despite my bunched shoulders. The zip-tie feels wholly unnecessary -- my wrists are already cuffed and chained to my collar, and now the additional zip-tie removes what little movement I had and locks my arms in a reverse-prayer position. Eventually they might cramp and burn with discomfort, but for now the position is more a nuisance owing to what it prevents me from doing.
Forcing my muscles to loosen, I slump back in the tub and slide down until only my head protrudes above the steamy water. I want so badly to slip a finger down between my legs, into the folds of hypersensitive flesh still tingling below, and claim what was denied to me for a whole torturous hour. I squeeze my thighs together in need, rub them back and forth, even thrash my hips around briefly trying to use the water rushing past me as stimulation, but without my dexterous fingers my efforts are for naught.
I open my mouth and take a deep breath, releasing it in an even longer sigh. What is it about men and denying their girl her orgasm? And what is it about girls that we so willingly hand ourselves over into the sadistic clutches of such men? I could be relaxing at home right now, in my own bath, or in front of my favorite porn, my fingers quite unrestrained and free to assist in any way I desire. But instead I chose to come here, to an uncertain future extending for a whole two days - two days which could be hell if I'm constantly edged without relief.
As is always the case after I've been thoroughly stretched open, I can still feel the device inside me, more a memory than a tangible sensation, but still enough to torment me with its absence. Vibrations that powerful don't just stop when you flick the switch; the nerves they awaken refuse to go back to sleep. The feeling of stimulation lingers just out of reach, teasing me with the pleasure that could have been.
But as the warmth of the spa washes over me, soothing every part of my aching body, my mind turns towards more comforting thoughts. I wonder what we'll be eating. We've never talked about that side of you -- the side that doesn't spend all his time binding girls tightly. The side that cooks, and plays music, and practices photography. I know you do these things, but beyond that, you remain a mystery. My interest has always been drawn towards your kinkier activities, almost to the point of selfishness, I realize guiltily.
Whatever it is, I hope you release my arms so I can enjoy it. The thought of been spoon-fed, or worse, eating directly from a bowl, is one that fills me with unfathomable embarrassment. I'm not a baby or a dog, even if I do sometimes whine for attention.
To be continued...
Links to all of my stories can be found here in the Story Catalog: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?f=46&t=6023
Part 7
Him
With dinner prepared and waiting on the kitchen table, I stroll out to the patio to check up on you. I find you shoulders-deep in the steaming water, your head lolled back on the edge of the spa, a vision of exhausted relaxation. I touch your cheek to let you know I’m there.
“Let me help you out of there,” I say kindly, leaning you forward, cutting the zip-tie and unlocking the wrist cuffs from your collar. Your shoulders, finally freed of their tension, slump gratefully under the surface.
A quick flick of a key opens the lock that holds your wrist cuffs together. I watch, bemused, as you stretch languidly. As soon as I sense you’ve rid yourself of a few kinks, I free your wrists from the cuffs.
The blindfold comes off last. For the first time in more than an hour and a half, your world extends outside the inky blackness of the padded leather. I help you climb out of the tub.
“Here,” I say, handing you a thick, oversized towel. “Dry yourself off.”
I stand idly by, watching you rub the plush terrycloth over every inch of your body -- every nook, every crevice. I hand you a smaller towel, with which you dry your hair and wrap it in an impromptu turban.
As you finish, I step forward and clip a braided leather leash to the ring on your collar. I let the tightly plaited cord hang for a moment. Stepping behind you, I reach through your legs, grab the leash’s wrist strap and pull it upward into your still-puffy folds.
You look at me and roll your eyes as the leather slides home. I wrap the leash around my hand a couple of times, pull gently upward, and then bump my closed fist against the small of your back.
“Let’s go. Dinner’s waiting. Green salads and cold grilled chicken for starters, iced tea, and strawberries and whipped cream for dessert. Sound good?”
You smile and nod. As we stroll to the kitchen, I hold just enough tension on the leash to make a thrill spread through your loins with every step.
I motion for you to take a seat. As you settle onto the smooth oak, I pull your hips against the chair’s back and secure the leash to one of the back slats. You wriggle your hips, testing the limits of your tether.
“OK, Sweet Girl,” I say, gesturing toward the modest meal as I take the other seat. “Dig in. Enjoy. And, if you can work it in between bites, I’d like to know how you feel about what you’ve experienced so far.”
Her
I sidle forwards slightly, enjoying the rough tug of the leather leash through my nether lips.
"Well, you certainly know how to keep a girl frustrated," I blush after a few mouthfuls.
It's an odd sensation, I decide, eating while naked. You sit across from me, full clothed, while the leash providing a constant caress through my crotch reminds me of the peculiar dynamic between us. The result is an embarrassing realization of the slut I've become in just two short hours. Well, two long hours, by my reckoning.
Even so, I've not yet lost so much dignity that I could willingly induce the throes of orgasm in your presence -- while drying off I'd had every desire to finish off what your vibrators started, but I'd held back. Consequently I'm still as horny as ever, and with the leash splitting my labia under the table, the rosy hue in my cheeks has nothing to do with the warmth of the room.
Raven, the dignified slut, I muse, as if such a thing is possible.
The food arraying the table before us is truly sumptuous, and I tell you as much between satisfied mouthfuls. You simply smile and take the compliment, perhaps more interested in keeping the conversation revolving around the primary reason for my stay. I can't blame you; I can scarcely take my mind off the strap between my legs for one second, and I imagine the sight my bare chest is affording you is having a similar effect.
"It's been an interesting evening... so far," I add, half-hopeful that there's more to come before the night is done, while at the same time hoping I'm able to get enough sleep to prepare me for the weekend ahead. "You have some excellent equipment here. I assume the one-bar prison was inspiration for that devilish predicament?"
Him
"Actually, the inspiration came from something I read years ago in Bondage Life magazine," I say. "It was a short story titled 'One Night Stand.' I am quite a fan of the one-bar prison, though."
I smile across the table at my turbaned, collared, tethered bondage slave-for-a-weekend.
"I'm glad you have an appetite. I was a little worried that you might be so nervous, or so worked up from your adventure in the basement, that you'd just pick at your food. That would have been unfortunate, because you're going to need stamina for your next test."
Your eyebrows rise in curiosity, but I don my best poker face and shift the subject.
"Thanks for the compliment about my equipment. I'm a bit of a tinkerer...a bondage engineer, more or less. I enjoy creating things I know will bring women pleasure. But, you know, I enjoy good old-fashioned rope just as much."
Her
"Rope is one of my favorite types of restraints," I admit. "But there's something about being treated to a device you know could only have been designed with one nefarious purpose in mind... and it ain't sewing," I laugh, a blush creeping back into my cheeks.
We continue eating, making small talk about everything from our favorite modes of exercise to the weather. Every now and then I shift in my seat and the leash digs its edges deeper into my folds, reminding me why I'm really here.
"So, these tests you keep mentioning..." I begin after a particularly tasty mouthful of chicken, "What are you testing? I mean, what does passing or failing the tests say about me? Do I get a certificate out of this?" I add jokingly.
To be continued...
Him
With dinner prepared and waiting on the kitchen table, I stroll out to the patio to check up on you. I find you shoulders-deep in the steaming water, your head lolled back on the edge of the spa, a vision of exhausted relaxation. I touch your cheek to let you know I’m there.
“Let me help you out of there,” I say kindly, leaning you forward, cutting the zip-tie and unlocking the wrist cuffs from your collar. Your shoulders, finally freed of their tension, slump gratefully under the surface.
A quick flick of a key opens the lock that holds your wrist cuffs together. I watch, bemused, as you stretch languidly. As soon as I sense you’ve rid yourself of a few kinks, I free your wrists from the cuffs.
The blindfold comes off last. For the first time in more than an hour and a half, your world extends outside the inky blackness of the padded leather. I help you climb out of the tub.
“Here,” I say, handing you a thick, oversized towel. “Dry yourself off.”
I stand idly by, watching you rub the plush terrycloth over every inch of your body -- every nook, every crevice. I hand you a smaller towel, with which you dry your hair and wrap it in an impromptu turban.
As you finish, I step forward and clip a braided leather leash to the ring on your collar. I let the tightly plaited cord hang for a moment. Stepping behind you, I reach through your legs, grab the leash’s wrist strap and pull it upward into your still-puffy folds.
You look at me and roll your eyes as the leather slides home. I wrap the leash around my hand a couple of times, pull gently upward, and then bump my closed fist against the small of your back.
“Let’s go. Dinner’s waiting. Green salads and cold grilled chicken for starters, iced tea, and strawberries and whipped cream for dessert. Sound good?”
You smile and nod. As we stroll to the kitchen, I hold just enough tension on the leash to make a thrill spread through your loins with every step.
I motion for you to take a seat. As you settle onto the smooth oak, I pull your hips against the chair’s back and secure the leash to one of the back slats. You wriggle your hips, testing the limits of your tether.
“OK, Sweet Girl,” I say, gesturing toward the modest meal as I take the other seat. “Dig in. Enjoy. And, if you can work it in between bites, I’d like to know how you feel about what you’ve experienced so far.”
Her
I sidle forwards slightly, enjoying the rough tug of the leather leash through my nether lips.
"Well, you certainly know how to keep a girl frustrated," I blush after a few mouthfuls.
It's an odd sensation, I decide, eating while naked. You sit across from me, full clothed, while the leash providing a constant caress through my crotch reminds me of the peculiar dynamic between us. The result is an embarrassing realization of the slut I've become in just two short hours. Well, two long hours, by my reckoning.
Even so, I've not yet lost so much dignity that I could willingly induce the throes of orgasm in your presence -- while drying off I'd had every desire to finish off what your vibrators started, but I'd held back. Consequently I'm still as horny as ever, and with the leash splitting my labia under the table, the rosy hue in my cheeks has nothing to do with the warmth of the room.
Raven, the dignified slut, I muse, as if such a thing is possible.
The food arraying the table before us is truly sumptuous, and I tell you as much between satisfied mouthfuls. You simply smile and take the compliment, perhaps more interested in keeping the conversation revolving around the primary reason for my stay. I can't blame you; I can scarcely take my mind off the strap between my legs for one second, and I imagine the sight my bare chest is affording you is having a similar effect.
"It's been an interesting evening... so far," I add, half-hopeful that there's more to come before the night is done, while at the same time hoping I'm able to get enough sleep to prepare me for the weekend ahead. "You have some excellent equipment here. I assume the one-bar prison was inspiration for that devilish predicament?"
Him
"Actually, the inspiration came from something I read years ago in Bondage Life magazine," I say. "It was a short story titled 'One Night Stand.' I am quite a fan of the one-bar prison, though."
I smile across the table at my turbaned, collared, tethered bondage slave-for-a-weekend.
"I'm glad you have an appetite. I was a little worried that you might be so nervous, or so worked up from your adventure in the basement, that you'd just pick at your food. That would have been unfortunate, because you're going to need stamina for your next test."
Your eyebrows rise in curiosity, but I don my best poker face and shift the subject.
"Thanks for the compliment about my equipment. I'm a bit of a tinkerer...a bondage engineer, more or less. I enjoy creating things I know will bring women pleasure. But, you know, I enjoy good old-fashioned rope just as much."
Her
"Rope is one of my favorite types of restraints," I admit. "But there's something about being treated to a device you know could only have been designed with one nefarious purpose in mind... and it ain't sewing," I laugh, a blush creeping back into my cheeks.
We continue eating, making small talk about everything from our favorite modes of exercise to the weather. Every now and then I shift in my seat and the leash digs its edges deeper into my folds, reminding me why I'm really here.
"So, these tests you keep mentioning..." I begin after a particularly tasty mouthful of chicken, "What are you testing? I mean, what does passing or failing the tests say about me? Do I get a certificate out of this?" I add jokingly.
To be continued...
Links to all of my stories can be found here in the Story Catalog: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?f=46&t=6023
Part 8
Him
"You get to be deliciously tormented," I reply. "If you fail, you get a 'punishment' torment. If you succeed, you get a 'pleasure.' You succeeded at your orgasm-denial trial, so you got a soak in the hot tub and dinner for your pleasure.
"After we finish dinner, I'd like for you to visit the bathroom to finish drying your hair and to freshen up a bit." I raise my eyebrows in a lecherous leer. "Then the fun begins again."
Her
I raise my eyebrows in mirror of yours, a stupid grin creeping to my face despite the strong suspicion that your "fun" is going to be my torment.
"That sounds positively dastardly," I smile. "Will this be before or after the strawberries and cream? Or perhaps... at the same time?"
Him
"At the same time," I grin mischievously, pulling a pair of handcuffs from my pocket. "Give me your wrists."
You drop your fork and extend your arms toward me. I snap the cuffs on, taking care to make them snug but not tight.
"I've put a long chain between these cuffs so you can enjoy the dinner and enjoy the bondage simultaneously. It will also allow you to fix your hair with only minor inconvenience. And there's one other reason, which I'll reveal after you finish your strawberries."
Her
I clean the last bit of salad from my plate, an odd smile on my face as I eat in handcuffs.
"You have my attention," I say casually, as if my attention had ever been elsewhere since I stepped through your front door.
I push the plate away from me. Ordinarily this would be when I offer to do the dishes, or at least clear the plates away, but as I begin to move the leash makes itself known again and I realize that with my hands now cuffed I can't actually reach around to release it from the chair's back slats. Sure, I could simply reach up and unclip the leash, but that hardly seems sporting -- not to mention I'm enjoying the strap between my legs a little too much. So instead I retract my hands and drop them to my lap to adjust the leash to a more, ah, opportunistic positioning, all the while smiling back at you innocently.
Him
I push back from the table, step over to your chair and untie the leash from the chair slats. A brisk tug on it prompts you to rise to your feet.
Once again, I keep the leash rubbing against your cleft as I show you to the bathroom. At the door, I step around and free it from the collar's O-ring.
"Here's what I was talking about," I say smugly, holding up a small padlock.
You shoot me a quizzical look at first, but when I lock the center of the handcuffs' chain to the O-ring, you instantly realize your all-too-eager fingers won't be able to provide the release you oh-so-desperately crave.
I reach out, pat your cheek and grin broadly.
"Have fun!" I say cheerily and turn away, ignoring the daggers your eyes hurl at me.
Her
"Bastard," I mutter under my breath once the bathroom door separates us. I slump against the door, my ass sliding down to the tiles.
I double over, fingers straining towards my crotch, but the handcuff chain stops them just out of reach. So instead my fingers drop to my breasts, rubbing and pinching my nipples in lieu of my preferred method of satisfaction. Of course, this only manages to heighten my desire even further.
Hair and makeup. How am I supposed to focus on hair and makeup with this insatiable gash between my legs? But even if I could find relief somehow -- say, by crudely rubbing against the edge of the bath -- I'd have to cleanse myself of sweat and juices once again, not to mention stifle the noises you'd no doubt hear from outside. And that's just no fun. In short, sexual pleasure is a lost cause right now.
Sighing, I shuffle over to the sink and look over myself in the mirror.
My hair is indeed still damp -- long, matted red locks produce an infrequent drip down my spine, barely noticeable due to the water's tepid temperature. I'm pleased to see I'm still looking reasonably fresh-faced, the soothing spa having capably revitalized me from the grueling edging session earlier. Still, a light re-application of makeup never hurts.
Then my eyes linger on my naked body, a proud smile stretching my lips. A touch paler than I'd like, but otherwise my skin is all but flawless. Alright, so I'm a little biased. My neat landing strip of pubic hair half-conceals the rosy hue of my abused nether region, and faint strap marks are still visible around my mouth where the ball gag was tightly buckled. That's not to mention the odd freckle and blemish, or the slight bruise on my hip from when I walked into a corner yesterday (don't laugh), but allowing for such inevitable imperfections, I think I look damn fine.
I squat down and rifle awkwardly through the drawers, my limited range of motion making this annoyingly more difficult than I'd like. Eventually I find the two items I need: a hair dryer and a makeup box. I employ the former first, shuffling over to a power point and blowing the last vestiges of moisture from my hair as best as I'm able. After a quick brush to restore its sleek appearance, I turn my attention to the makeup.
The box is surprisingly well-stocked. Either you have or had a woman in the house, because no man I know would have a clue how to buy these things. Exercising an iron will, I decide to skip right to a stick of pale blush lip gloss. Starting over from foundation would take some time, and I'm sure you wouldn't much appreciate my resulting tardiness.
A few minutes later I smack my lips and stow the box away, content with the bright-eyed beauty who now smiles back from the mirror.
As I make for the door I realize I've almost entirely forgotten the agonizing state of arousal in which I'd been when I walked in; it's amazing what a short time playing with cosmetics can do.
To be continued...
Him
"You get to be deliciously tormented," I reply. "If you fail, you get a 'punishment' torment. If you succeed, you get a 'pleasure.' You succeeded at your orgasm-denial trial, so you got a soak in the hot tub and dinner for your pleasure.
"After we finish dinner, I'd like for you to visit the bathroom to finish drying your hair and to freshen up a bit." I raise my eyebrows in a lecherous leer. "Then the fun begins again."
Her
I raise my eyebrows in mirror of yours, a stupid grin creeping to my face despite the strong suspicion that your "fun" is going to be my torment.
"That sounds positively dastardly," I smile. "Will this be before or after the strawberries and cream? Or perhaps... at the same time?"
Him
"At the same time," I grin mischievously, pulling a pair of handcuffs from my pocket. "Give me your wrists."
You drop your fork and extend your arms toward me. I snap the cuffs on, taking care to make them snug but not tight.
"I've put a long chain between these cuffs so you can enjoy the dinner and enjoy the bondage simultaneously. It will also allow you to fix your hair with only minor inconvenience. And there's one other reason, which I'll reveal after you finish your strawberries."
Her
I clean the last bit of salad from my plate, an odd smile on my face as I eat in handcuffs.
"You have my attention," I say casually, as if my attention had ever been elsewhere since I stepped through your front door.
I push the plate away from me. Ordinarily this would be when I offer to do the dishes, or at least clear the plates away, but as I begin to move the leash makes itself known again and I realize that with my hands now cuffed I can't actually reach around to release it from the chair's back slats. Sure, I could simply reach up and unclip the leash, but that hardly seems sporting -- not to mention I'm enjoying the strap between my legs a little too much. So instead I retract my hands and drop them to my lap to adjust the leash to a more, ah, opportunistic positioning, all the while smiling back at you innocently.
Him
I push back from the table, step over to your chair and untie the leash from the chair slats. A brisk tug on it prompts you to rise to your feet.
Once again, I keep the leash rubbing against your cleft as I show you to the bathroom. At the door, I step around and free it from the collar's O-ring.
"Here's what I was talking about," I say smugly, holding up a small padlock.
You shoot me a quizzical look at first, but when I lock the center of the handcuffs' chain to the O-ring, you instantly realize your all-too-eager fingers won't be able to provide the release you oh-so-desperately crave.
I reach out, pat your cheek and grin broadly.
"Have fun!" I say cheerily and turn away, ignoring the daggers your eyes hurl at me.
Her
"Bastard," I mutter under my breath once the bathroom door separates us. I slump against the door, my ass sliding down to the tiles.
I double over, fingers straining towards my crotch, but the handcuff chain stops them just out of reach. So instead my fingers drop to my breasts, rubbing and pinching my nipples in lieu of my preferred method of satisfaction. Of course, this only manages to heighten my desire even further.
Hair and makeup. How am I supposed to focus on hair and makeup with this insatiable gash between my legs? But even if I could find relief somehow -- say, by crudely rubbing against the edge of the bath -- I'd have to cleanse myself of sweat and juices once again, not to mention stifle the noises you'd no doubt hear from outside. And that's just no fun. In short, sexual pleasure is a lost cause right now.
Sighing, I shuffle over to the sink and look over myself in the mirror.
My hair is indeed still damp -- long, matted red locks produce an infrequent drip down my spine, barely noticeable due to the water's tepid temperature. I'm pleased to see I'm still looking reasonably fresh-faced, the soothing spa having capably revitalized me from the grueling edging session earlier. Still, a light re-application of makeup never hurts.
Then my eyes linger on my naked body, a proud smile stretching my lips. A touch paler than I'd like, but otherwise my skin is all but flawless. Alright, so I'm a little biased. My neat landing strip of pubic hair half-conceals the rosy hue of my abused nether region, and faint strap marks are still visible around my mouth where the ball gag was tightly buckled. That's not to mention the odd freckle and blemish, or the slight bruise on my hip from when I walked into a corner yesterday (don't laugh), but allowing for such inevitable imperfections, I think I look damn fine.
I squat down and rifle awkwardly through the drawers, my limited range of motion making this annoyingly more difficult than I'd like. Eventually I find the two items I need: a hair dryer and a makeup box. I employ the former first, shuffling over to a power point and blowing the last vestiges of moisture from my hair as best as I'm able. After a quick brush to restore its sleek appearance, I turn my attention to the makeup.
The box is surprisingly well-stocked. Either you have or had a woman in the house, because no man I know would have a clue how to buy these things. Exercising an iron will, I decide to skip right to a stick of pale blush lip gloss. Starting over from foundation would take some time, and I'm sure you wouldn't much appreciate my resulting tardiness.
A few minutes later I smack my lips and stow the box away, content with the bright-eyed beauty who now smiles back from the mirror.
As I make for the door I realize I've almost entirely forgotten the agonizing state of arousal in which I'd been when I walked in; it's amazing what a short time playing with cosmetics can do.
To be continued...
Links to all of my stories can be found here in the Story Catalog: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?f=46&t=6023
-
tickletied84
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 490
- Joined: 6 years ago
- Location: Scotland
Really enjoying this - think you've found a great collaborator - hope there's lots more to come!
Part 9
Him
You emerge from the bathroom, and I like what I see.
“Well, you certainly made quick work of that. Considering your ‘handicap,’ I’d say you did remarkably well.”
You smile and curtsy sarcastically, making cuffed jazz hands as you do.
“And because you’ve performed so admirably, you’ll now get to enjoy the fruits of your labors.”
I step forward and once again clip the leash to your collar, pass it between your legs and take up the slack.
“Let’s go back to the basement. I have a surprise for you there.”
You look at me quizzically.
“No, I’m not going to skewer you again with that pole. While you were in the bathroom, I set up another little piece of equipment.”
As we descend the stairs, I yank gently on the leash, tugging the braided leather deeper into your cleft. You stiffen a little, but otherwise remain impassive.
“This way.” I tug you to the left, and we stop in front of the curtain I’ve hung from the ceiling.
“Behind this drape is your surprise. First, however, I need to prepare you. Stand here.”
I strap padded leather cuffs around your wrists, upper arms, ankles and thighs, and then buckle a thick belt snugly around your waist.
“Guess what’s coming next?” You open your mouth wide.
“You read me so well, Sweet Girl,” I say as I push an oversized silicone ball into the waiting orifice. Your teeth squeak against the silicone until it finally pops in. Your eyes widen. Clearly this is the largest ball gag you’ve ever worn. It should be. It's the largest I've ever tried on anyone.
“You’ll be happy for that gag before we’re through,” I say, patting you on your backside. “Now let’s introduce you to the instrument of your destruction.”
I sweep the curtain aside and you see it: A Sybian, mounted atop what looks like a steel sawhorse. “Time for you to ‘saddle up.’”
I lift you up over the Sybian and ease you down onto the pre-lubricated phallus that projects from its top. Your nether lips close over the shaft and nestle onto the vibrator pad’s forest of tiny rubber cilia. Even with the pad switched off, the sensation causes you to catch your breath.
I padlock thick chains onto each ankle cuff and padlock the chains to rings sunk into the floor, spreading your legs as far out to the side as they will stretch. In similar fashion, I attach your thigh pads to rings in the ceiling.
Another lock links together the cuffs on your upper arms, forcing your elbows close together. Yet another lock links the two wrist cuffs.
“Here’s where it gets fun for me,” I whisper into your ear. Seconds later, feel your arms drawn up behind you into a semi-strappado. As your arms rise, your weight shifts forward, squarely onto the rubber vibrator pad. You let out an involuntary moan.
I roll your nipples gently between my thumbs and forefingers. Your head tilts back in pleasure –- until the clover clamps bite home. I tether the clamps' connecting chain as tautly as possible to the front of the Sybian. A leather blindfold completes your riding ensemble.
“Now, Sweet Girl, you get to experience the pleasure that’s been denied you so far this evening. My goal for you is twenty orgasms, if you can survive them.”
I twist the vibrator knob. The Sybian rumbles to life.
Her
I barely have time to suffer the pain of the clover clamps before the powerful vibrator beneath me gives me something else to think about.
On cue, I twitch and try to pull back, but my poor arms are having none of it. Locked in strappado, my only available option is to lean more and more forward. But my clit takes objection to that, leaving me torn between opposite discomforts: uncomfortable pain and uncomfortable pleasure.
Oh, I love the vibrations currently rolling through my denied pussy, make no mistake. But that sensitive flesh is quickly approaching the point of over-stimulation, and the bondage leaves no doubt that there's nothing I can do about it.
The Sybian's rubber pad is unlike nothing I've ever felt before -- even without vibrating, my arousal was guaranteed. Now with the vibrations and the dildo and my thighs stretched taut in either direction, leaving me no bastion from the rumbling machine inside me... Gahh.
Words turn to slurs around the impossibly huge ball gag. I'm not sure what I'm trying to say, but no response is forthcoming and I get a long string of drool sliding over my bottom lip for my efforts. It drips down my chin and into the darkness. I realize now that drool is not the only fluid soiling my body -- beads of sweat have sprung up down my back and on my chest. I shake my breasts hoping to dislodge the clamps, but they cling on stubbornly and with a small yelp I drive myself deeper into the Sybian's cilia.
Then it hits me. My muscles seize up and relax again in a body-wracking orgasm, easily the most intense I've experienced in a long time. Several smaller aftershocks follow, each of them triggering an instinct to struggle and tug at every restraint in futility. This is when guys withdraw their fingers and cradle my trembling form in their arms, but the machine shows no signs of slowing and the only cradling I get is from the cruel strappado.
I let out a whimper. My poor pussy is protesting at the prompting to build to a second orgasm, and you want to drag twenty out of me? Would there be any of me left?
To be continued...
Him
You emerge from the bathroom, and I like what I see.
“Well, you certainly made quick work of that. Considering your ‘handicap,’ I’d say you did remarkably well.”
You smile and curtsy sarcastically, making cuffed jazz hands as you do.
“And because you’ve performed so admirably, you’ll now get to enjoy the fruits of your labors.”
I step forward and once again clip the leash to your collar, pass it between your legs and take up the slack.
“Let’s go back to the basement. I have a surprise for you there.”
You look at me quizzically.
“No, I’m not going to skewer you again with that pole. While you were in the bathroom, I set up another little piece of equipment.”
As we descend the stairs, I yank gently on the leash, tugging the braided leather deeper into your cleft. You stiffen a little, but otherwise remain impassive.
“This way.” I tug you to the left, and we stop in front of the curtain I’ve hung from the ceiling.
“Behind this drape is your surprise. First, however, I need to prepare you. Stand here.”
I strap padded leather cuffs around your wrists, upper arms, ankles and thighs, and then buckle a thick belt snugly around your waist.
“Guess what’s coming next?” You open your mouth wide.
“You read me so well, Sweet Girl,” I say as I push an oversized silicone ball into the waiting orifice. Your teeth squeak against the silicone until it finally pops in. Your eyes widen. Clearly this is the largest ball gag you’ve ever worn. It should be. It's the largest I've ever tried on anyone.
“You’ll be happy for that gag before we’re through,” I say, patting you on your backside. “Now let’s introduce you to the instrument of your destruction.”
I sweep the curtain aside and you see it: A Sybian, mounted atop what looks like a steel sawhorse. “Time for you to ‘saddle up.’”
I lift you up over the Sybian and ease you down onto the pre-lubricated phallus that projects from its top. Your nether lips close over the shaft and nestle onto the vibrator pad’s forest of tiny rubber cilia. Even with the pad switched off, the sensation causes you to catch your breath.
I padlock thick chains onto each ankle cuff and padlock the chains to rings sunk into the floor, spreading your legs as far out to the side as they will stretch. In similar fashion, I attach your thigh pads to rings in the ceiling.
Another lock links together the cuffs on your upper arms, forcing your elbows close together. Yet another lock links the two wrist cuffs.
“Here’s where it gets fun for me,” I whisper into your ear. Seconds later, feel your arms drawn up behind you into a semi-strappado. As your arms rise, your weight shifts forward, squarely onto the rubber vibrator pad. You let out an involuntary moan.
I roll your nipples gently between my thumbs and forefingers. Your head tilts back in pleasure –- until the clover clamps bite home. I tether the clamps' connecting chain as tautly as possible to the front of the Sybian. A leather blindfold completes your riding ensemble.
“Now, Sweet Girl, you get to experience the pleasure that’s been denied you so far this evening. My goal for you is twenty orgasms, if you can survive them.”
I twist the vibrator knob. The Sybian rumbles to life.
Her
I barely have time to suffer the pain of the clover clamps before the powerful vibrator beneath me gives me something else to think about.
On cue, I twitch and try to pull back, but my poor arms are having none of it. Locked in strappado, my only available option is to lean more and more forward. But my clit takes objection to that, leaving me torn between opposite discomforts: uncomfortable pain and uncomfortable pleasure.
Oh, I love the vibrations currently rolling through my denied pussy, make no mistake. But that sensitive flesh is quickly approaching the point of over-stimulation, and the bondage leaves no doubt that there's nothing I can do about it.
The Sybian's rubber pad is unlike nothing I've ever felt before -- even without vibrating, my arousal was guaranteed. Now with the vibrations and the dildo and my thighs stretched taut in either direction, leaving me no bastion from the rumbling machine inside me... Gahh.
Words turn to slurs around the impossibly huge ball gag. I'm not sure what I'm trying to say, but no response is forthcoming and I get a long string of drool sliding over my bottom lip for my efforts. It drips down my chin and into the darkness. I realize now that drool is not the only fluid soiling my body -- beads of sweat have sprung up down my back and on my chest. I shake my breasts hoping to dislodge the clamps, but they cling on stubbornly and with a small yelp I drive myself deeper into the Sybian's cilia.
Then it hits me. My muscles seize up and relax again in a body-wracking orgasm, easily the most intense I've experienced in a long time. Several smaller aftershocks follow, each of them triggering an instinct to struggle and tug at every restraint in futility. This is when guys withdraw their fingers and cradle my trembling form in their arms, but the machine shows no signs of slowing and the only cradling I get is from the cruel strappado.
I let out a whimper. My poor pussy is protesting at the prompting to build to a second orgasm, and you want to drag twenty out of me? Would there be any of me left?
To be continued...
Links to all of my stories can be found here in the Story Catalog: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?f=46&t=6023
Part 10
Him
I lean close and speak into your ear, loudly enough to be heard through your haze of arousal and the rumble of the Sybian.
"Horny little wench, weren't you? Just think, Sweet Girl...that first orgasm came with the vibrator on a fairly low setting. What are you going to do when I crank up the speed and start that phallus twirling inside you?"
You respond with a high-pitched, plaintive whimper.
I turn the vibrator up a notch and, after the briefest of pauses, give the phallus knob a quarter twist.
Your entire body stiffens as the Sybian's mechanical member spins to life. I give your bare backside a firm smack. "The ride gets wilder from here. Try not to pull too many muscles."
Her
My ass continues quivering long after the ripples from your hand's impact have dissipated. Pulling muscles is the last thing on my mind as pleasure continues to assault my body, muscles that were never designed for endurance being forced into repeated spasms.
A second orgasm floods my senses with overwhelming bliss, and again I tug in every direction looking for a way out. The aftershocks merge with a third climax, my nether region stimulated with unerring efficiency now as the Sybian both vibrates and twists inside me.
I moan again, struggle again, fail again. The pattern begins to tax my body in ways quite unrelated to the act of coitus: my shoulders burn from being held in strappado, my ribs ache from holding and releasing so many powerful breaths, and my chest boils from the blood attempting to reclaim my clamped nipples.
I want to resist, to steel myself against the merciless Sybian, to quell the swell of arousal clogging my conscious mind, but I just can't. Pleasure is not something our bodies are built to resist. To the contrary, pleasure receives the royal treatment: a hearty welcome, gates open, no questions asked. Endorphins seduce any resistance and make my body more and more partial to the unrelenting stimulation.
A fourth orgasm, or is it the fifth? It's all a haze now. Initially I was able distinguish the pleasure below from the pain above, but now everything melds together. Everything aches; everything convulses in delight. Every nerve twitches in a confused mass of over-stimulation.
My mind drifts, seeking to escape the intensity of my hapless plight. The darkness never changes, yet somehow I visualize myself from a third-person perspective, observing the situation in its entirety. My surroundings are a blur, but every drop of sweat on my bound figure is visible in intimate detail, even as I see myself when I look in a mirror.
The image is conjured entirely from the sensations I feel, yet every detail is immaculate as my imagination fills in the blanks. My arms are practically fused together from the elbows down by the sturdy leather cuffs that encircle them. Even with the proper leverage I'd have no hope of separating them, and pulled up into a strappado even higher than I realized, I have no leverage at all.
In my hunched-over position my modest breasts look like melons, nipples white from the chrome clover clamps that swing from them. A short chain connects the instruments of my torment to the powerful Sybian below, a low thrum running through the chain to my bust. From time to time the chain tugs taut as I try to pull away, tightening the little teeth over my nubs. No wonder I can't ignore the plight of my crushed nipples.
My legs... What did my legs ever do to warrant such restraints? Thick, heavy chains drag my ankles wide apart while more chains lift my thighs skyward, stretching my inner tights taut and forcing all of my weight against the relentless machine. But for all its power, the Sybian is deceptively inert. The unassuming bulk of the machine sits in one place -- only the hum from the saddle and the blur it makes of my swollen labia give any indication of its effects. Its true power is hidden from view, buried inside me.
Needless to say, to describe my pussy's voracious appetite as being adequately sated would be a hopeless understatement. I'm beginning to fear that after this, that appetite will never be sated by anything less than such overwhelming pleasure.
Him
A kind Master is a good Master, and when your body convulses for the umpteenth time in mere minutes, I start to wonder how many orgasms are too many.
Careful, old boy. This toy might break if you rev her up too much…
Slowly, I ease the control knobs back. Half power, quarter power, eighth power, sixteenth power, and finally zero. Freed at last from the blitzkrieg of sensation, your body relaxes. You hang limply in your restraints.
The gag comes out first. It squeaks past your teeth and makes a soft pop as it passes your lips. I undo the blindfold, look into your eyes, and chuckle. The expression, “The lights are on, but nobody’s home” comes immediately to mind.
“Brace yourself,” I say softly. “The clamps are coming off.”
I compress the springs and disengage the cruel implements from your areolae. Your face squinches in pain, and you bite your lip to keep from crying out. A groan escapes anyway.
One by one, I unlock your cuffs’ padlocks from their chains and lift you off the Sybian. You slump against my chest as I carry you to the sofa, lay you on the cushions and pull a down comforter over you. Minutes later, after you’ve sipped at a cup of tea and scarfed a few chocolates, your eyes begin to focus again.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” I say as I sit with you on the sofa, stroking your crimson tresses. “I trust that satisfied your need, at least for the moment?”
Her
I stare blankly for a moment as my mind catches up with all that my body has experienced. Satisfied, yes... Definitely yes! I bite my lip as a blushing smile creeps to my lips, and moments later I'm grinning like a lunatic.
"At least for the moment," I echo cheekily, well aware that I may be writing checks my body can't cash in, but presently too high on endorphins to care.
I swipe another chocolate, rolling its sweet taste around my mouth to purge my taste buds of the memory of saliva-soaked rubber. The tea helps too, putting a fire in my chest to rival the dull ache of every muscle in my exhausted form.
My pussy continues to throb, making it impossible to think about much else other than the thorough wringing I've just been through. With the cuffs all still present and of course the ever-present metal collar encircling my fragile neck, bondage isn't far from my mind. I wonder how I am to sleep. Bound? Frogtied? I've long had the peculiar fantasy of being kept in a cage, but I don't know how well that would actually work.
Mustering every sore muscle within me, I sit up and look at you for a clue. But your sly smile isn't giving anything away -- it looks like I'll just have to wait and see.
To be continued...
Him
I lean close and speak into your ear, loudly enough to be heard through your haze of arousal and the rumble of the Sybian.
"Horny little wench, weren't you? Just think, Sweet Girl...that first orgasm came with the vibrator on a fairly low setting. What are you going to do when I crank up the speed and start that phallus twirling inside you?"
You respond with a high-pitched, plaintive whimper.
I turn the vibrator up a notch and, after the briefest of pauses, give the phallus knob a quarter twist.
Your entire body stiffens as the Sybian's mechanical member spins to life. I give your bare backside a firm smack. "The ride gets wilder from here. Try not to pull too many muscles."
Her
My ass continues quivering long after the ripples from your hand's impact have dissipated. Pulling muscles is the last thing on my mind as pleasure continues to assault my body, muscles that were never designed for endurance being forced into repeated spasms.
A second orgasm floods my senses with overwhelming bliss, and again I tug in every direction looking for a way out. The aftershocks merge with a third climax, my nether region stimulated with unerring efficiency now as the Sybian both vibrates and twists inside me.
I moan again, struggle again, fail again. The pattern begins to tax my body in ways quite unrelated to the act of coitus: my shoulders burn from being held in strappado, my ribs ache from holding and releasing so many powerful breaths, and my chest boils from the blood attempting to reclaim my clamped nipples.
I want to resist, to steel myself against the merciless Sybian, to quell the swell of arousal clogging my conscious mind, but I just can't. Pleasure is not something our bodies are built to resist. To the contrary, pleasure receives the royal treatment: a hearty welcome, gates open, no questions asked. Endorphins seduce any resistance and make my body more and more partial to the unrelenting stimulation.
A fourth orgasm, or is it the fifth? It's all a haze now. Initially I was able distinguish the pleasure below from the pain above, but now everything melds together. Everything aches; everything convulses in delight. Every nerve twitches in a confused mass of over-stimulation.
My mind drifts, seeking to escape the intensity of my hapless plight. The darkness never changes, yet somehow I visualize myself from a third-person perspective, observing the situation in its entirety. My surroundings are a blur, but every drop of sweat on my bound figure is visible in intimate detail, even as I see myself when I look in a mirror.
The image is conjured entirely from the sensations I feel, yet every detail is immaculate as my imagination fills in the blanks. My arms are practically fused together from the elbows down by the sturdy leather cuffs that encircle them. Even with the proper leverage I'd have no hope of separating them, and pulled up into a strappado even higher than I realized, I have no leverage at all.
In my hunched-over position my modest breasts look like melons, nipples white from the chrome clover clamps that swing from them. A short chain connects the instruments of my torment to the powerful Sybian below, a low thrum running through the chain to my bust. From time to time the chain tugs taut as I try to pull away, tightening the little teeth over my nubs. No wonder I can't ignore the plight of my crushed nipples.
My legs... What did my legs ever do to warrant such restraints? Thick, heavy chains drag my ankles wide apart while more chains lift my thighs skyward, stretching my inner tights taut and forcing all of my weight against the relentless machine. But for all its power, the Sybian is deceptively inert. The unassuming bulk of the machine sits in one place -- only the hum from the saddle and the blur it makes of my swollen labia give any indication of its effects. Its true power is hidden from view, buried inside me.
Needless to say, to describe my pussy's voracious appetite as being adequately sated would be a hopeless understatement. I'm beginning to fear that after this, that appetite will never be sated by anything less than such overwhelming pleasure.
Him
A kind Master is a good Master, and when your body convulses for the umpteenth time in mere minutes, I start to wonder how many orgasms are too many.
Careful, old boy. This toy might break if you rev her up too much…
Slowly, I ease the control knobs back. Half power, quarter power, eighth power, sixteenth power, and finally zero. Freed at last from the blitzkrieg of sensation, your body relaxes. You hang limply in your restraints.
The gag comes out first. It squeaks past your teeth and makes a soft pop as it passes your lips. I undo the blindfold, look into your eyes, and chuckle. The expression, “The lights are on, but nobody’s home” comes immediately to mind.
“Brace yourself,” I say softly. “The clamps are coming off.”
I compress the springs and disengage the cruel implements from your areolae. Your face squinches in pain, and you bite your lip to keep from crying out. A groan escapes anyway.
One by one, I unlock your cuffs’ padlocks from their chains and lift you off the Sybian. You slump against my chest as I carry you to the sofa, lay you on the cushions and pull a down comforter over you. Minutes later, after you’ve sipped at a cup of tea and scarfed a few chocolates, your eyes begin to focus again.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” I say as I sit with you on the sofa, stroking your crimson tresses. “I trust that satisfied your need, at least for the moment?”
Her
I stare blankly for a moment as my mind catches up with all that my body has experienced. Satisfied, yes... Definitely yes! I bite my lip as a blushing smile creeps to my lips, and moments later I'm grinning like a lunatic.
"At least for the moment," I echo cheekily, well aware that I may be writing checks my body can't cash in, but presently too high on endorphins to care.
I swipe another chocolate, rolling its sweet taste around my mouth to purge my taste buds of the memory of saliva-soaked rubber. The tea helps too, putting a fire in my chest to rival the dull ache of every muscle in my exhausted form.
My pussy continues to throb, making it impossible to think about much else other than the thorough wringing I've just been through. With the cuffs all still present and of course the ever-present metal collar encircling my fragile neck, bondage isn't far from my mind. I wonder how I am to sleep. Bound? Frogtied? I've long had the peculiar fantasy of being kept in a cage, but I don't know how well that would actually work.
Mustering every sore muscle within me, I sit up and look at you for a clue. But your sly smile isn't giving anything away -- it looks like I'll just have to wait and see.
To be continued...
Links to all of my stories can be found here in the Story Catalog: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?f=46&t=6023
Well you’ve done it again, pulled of a mastery vision in words, you’ve taken the normally forced situation of slavery and turned it into a cross between romance, longing, lust and willingness, probably the best I’ve ever seen, thank you of your time and effort, looking forward to part 11, 12, 13, 14, oh hell you get the point I’m sure
-
RopingRingers
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 488
- Joined: 4 years ago
This is some DAMN good writing. Great writing elicits physical response I find - your pulse quickens, your eyes dampen etc. And I definitely felt something, especially the way it swaps POV and you get a feel of how both of them are reacting to this unique situation.
Part 11
Him
I take your hands and unbuckle the wrist cuffs. The ankle cuffs soon follow.
“Now that you’re satisfied, I think I can leave you unrestrained for a short while,” I say. “There’s a jetted tub in the bathroom. Have a nice, leisurely bubble bath. When you’re finished, look in the bathroom’s closet. You’ll find two sets of sleepwear hanging there. You get to choose what you’ll wear -- one of the two outfits, or nothing at all. A word of warning, though. The less you wear, the more you’ll be restrained when you sleep.”
I give you a puckish smile.
“Now, scoot.”
Her
The bubble bath is everything I needed and more. Hot, relaxing, fragrant, frivolous. It wasn't my intention to coat the walls and floor in bubbles, but these things just happen. They'll dissolve eventually.
I emerge from the foamy mass refreshed and revitalized, my long ruby locks thoroughly shampooed and conditioned. Another 10 minutes later my hair is mostly dried, my skin is soft and smooth, and I'm ready to investigate this selection of sleepwear.
The bathroom closet opens to reveal two sets of lingerie hanging neatly from coat hangers. The first is a pale silk chemise -- simple but sexy. Nonetheless, your challenge calls for something more revealing, so I turn my attention to the other set.
The second set of lingerie are an electric blue bra and matching panties. Sexy and revealing. The bra has a strap that rests below the bust and two triangle-shaped cups pulled up by narrow shoulder straps. It slips on effortlessly, and I admire my reflection in the mirror. The cups have a floral lace design that would allow observant voyeurs to spy my nipples beneath. Kinky.
The boy-short panties sport a similar design, offering little coverage to begin with and even less due to the translucent design. I have to admit the overall aesthetic is stunning, despite scarcely concealing my privates and leaving little to the imagination.
But there remains an unspoken third option, and the daredevil in me can't stop wondering what sort of night it might lead to. After all, I didn't come here to put on a fashion parade, and I've always preferred sleeping with at least my chest unencumbered anyway.
Thus it transpires that when I finally exit the steamy bathroom and return to the living room, I am wearing nothing but my birthday suit and a deep red blush as I coyly avert my eyes from yours.
Him
My eyebrows rise at the lovely sight. I figured you’d be tired of tight restraint by now, and I offered you two opportunities to ease up on the bondage at least for a few hours. You chose the tough route. Impressive…
The gentleman in me smiles pleasantly at your eagerness. The Snidely Whiplash in me rubs his hands together gleefully and looks around for railroad tracks to tie you to.
“An excellent choice, Sweet Girl,” I say. “Since you’ve chosen the option that gives me the most fun, I’m going to try to return the favor. Follow me.”
I clip the leash onto your collar and lead you to the bedroom. At the corner of the large four-poster bed I pause, and loop the leash over the post. “Hands behind your back.”
A pair of leather cuffs and a padlock secure your wrists. Two more cuffs and a snap-link pull your upper arms toward each other, forcing your chest upward and outward. I step around and admire the view for a few short moments.
Cuffs on your ankles and thighs complete your leathery ensemble. I lift the leash from the bedpost and lead you to the side of the bed. “Sit down and roll onto your tummy.” Chains and padlocks secure your ankles to each corner of the footboard and your thighs to the bedrails. I tie the leash to the center of the headboard, then stand back to admire my handiwork.
You lie stretched across the bed in a taut, inverted “Y.” I lift your head and insert an O-ring gag into your mouth, buckle a leather blindfold over your eyes, insert ear buds into your ears and turn on a recording of white noise.
Slow down, old boy. Don’t get so wrapped up in the bondage you miss out on the fun…
I sit beside you and softly begin caressing your neck, the sides of your breasts and the firm flesh of your backside. My hand wanders to your inner thighs, my fingers to the soft folds of your nether lips. They linger for several long minutes, massaging the sensitive flesh. When my fingers moisten and soft moans escape from your throat, I know you’re ready. I switch off the white noise.
“Don’t be alarmed, Sweet Girl, but there’s an intruder about to enter the back door.”
I press the lubricated plug against your sphincter, insert it a bit, withdraw it, then insert it again a bit deeper. Several repetitions later, it pops into place.
“This isn’t especially large, but it should make your dreams interesting. I’ve heard that bound women’s dreams are especially vivid. Nighty-night.”
Her
A loud slurping noise escapes my mouth as I draw a sharp intake of breath, goosebumps springing into existence with the cool metal plug's entry. It might not be large, but when you're stretched wide and unable to see what's going on, even a pinky finger inserted into that hole can deliver a jarring shock.
Sure, I've had plugs in my ass before, but never while helplessly bound and unable to resist, and never with so little notice. Besides, it's not a sensation I can ever imagine becoming accustomed to. The ass is designed for things to go out, not in; I've never experienced the latter without my body flinching in response. Enter mankind's unerring desire to subvert nature and an accessory designed specifically to nestle in nature's exhaust, using the body's own muscles to grip it in place no less, and you begin to understand why butt plugs are always something of a mind-fuck.
A departing of body heat informs me that you've left the bed, and the faint click of the door latching confirms I am now alone, having been "tucked in" for the night.
I curse quietly, half-mumbling, half-drooling into the pillow.
I roll my shoulders, trying to accustom myself to the uncomfortably tight coupling of my elbows. I pull at my thighs, trying to close my legs and regain some semblance of control over my plugged rear. I stretch my fingers down, kneading my naked ass, trying to reach the plug nestled in my backside.
All efforts prove futile. I can touch the plug, enough to appreciate its sleek chrome finish and bejeweled cap, but with my body working against me I lack the leverage to pull it out.
This is it, then. This is how I am to remain for the night, sleep or no.
Contrary to my expectations, I do eventually find myself drifting off into the land of nod. I'm not sure how long it takes, but eventually the aching of taut muscles diminishes with familiarity and the darkness becomes complete, consuming not only my vision but my mind as well.
For the first time in weeks, I dream. I dream of dark cobblestone alleyways and gloomy dungeons. Of devious devices and cruel predicaments. Time and time again I play the hapless victim in a rigged game. The images are wispy and elusive, but the sensations are as real as anything I've experienced. Are my ass cheeks really scalding from the bite of the whip? Is my clit really swollen from the touch of the feather? Is my face really crimson from the hands wrapped tightly around my neck?
They say arousal is born in the mind. My body certainly can't tell the difference. Undoubtedly I feel these sensations so vividly because I am responding to them -- not only in my dreams, but in the waking realm as well.
At some point I must have awoken, for I sense I am alone once more. Free of the torments of my imaginary captors but still very much in the clutches of a real one, I writhe once more to confirm what I already know. I might have regained consciousness, but I'm still blind, bound, and helpless -- and still wondering through the dark corridors of my vivid imagination, seeking my next thrill.
To be continued...
Him
I take your hands and unbuckle the wrist cuffs. The ankle cuffs soon follow.
“Now that you’re satisfied, I think I can leave you unrestrained for a short while,” I say. “There’s a jetted tub in the bathroom. Have a nice, leisurely bubble bath. When you’re finished, look in the bathroom’s closet. You’ll find two sets of sleepwear hanging there. You get to choose what you’ll wear -- one of the two outfits, or nothing at all. A word of warning, though. The less you wear, the more you’ll be restrained when you sleep.”
I give you a puckish smile.
“Now, scoot.”
Her
The bubble bath is everything I needed and more. Hot, relaxing, fragrant, frivolous. It wasn't my intention to coat the walls and floor in bubbles, but these things just happen. They'll dissolve eventually.
I emerge from the foamy mass refreshed and revitalized, my long ruby locks thoroughly shampooed and conditioned. Another 10 minutes later my hair is mostly dried, my skin is soft and smooth, and I'm ready to investigate this selection of sleepwear.
The bathroom closet opens to reveal two sets of lingerie hanging neatly from coat hangers. The first is a pale silk chemise -- simple but sexy. Nonetheless, your challenge calls for something more revealing, so I turn my attention to the other set.
The second set of lingerie are an electric blue bra and matching panties. Sexy and revealing. The bra has a strap that rests below the bust and two triangle-shaped cups pulled up by narrow shoulder straps. It slips on effortlessly, and I admire my reflection in the mirror. The cups have a floral lace design that would allow observant voyeurs to spy my nipples beneath. Kinky.
The boy-short panties sport a similar design, offering little coverage to begin with and even less due to the translucent design. I have to admit the overall aesthetic is stunning, despite scarcely concealing my privates and leaving little to the imagination.
But there remains an unspoken third option, and the daredevil in me can't stop wondering what sort of night it might lead to. After all, I didn't come here to put on a fashion parade, and I've always preferred sleeping with at least my chest unencumbered anyway.
Thus it transpires that when I finally exit the steamy bathroom and return to the living room, I am wearing nothing but my birthday suit and a deep red blush as I coyly avert my eyes from yours.
Him
My eyebrows rise at the lovely sight. I figured you’d be tired of tight restraint by now, and I offered you two opportunities to ease up on the bondage at least for a few hours. You chose the tough route. Impressive…
The gentleman in me smiles pleasantly at your eagerness. The Snidely Whiplash in me rubs his hands together gleefully and looks around for railroad tracks to tie you to.
“An excellent choice, Sweet Girl,” I say. “Since you’ve chosen the option that gives me the most fun, I’m going to try to return the favor. Follow me.”
I clip the leash onto your collar and lead you to the bedroom. At the corner of the large four-poster bed I pause, and loop the leash over the post. “Hands behind your back.”
A pair of leather cuffs and a padlock secure your wrists. Two more cuffs and a snap-link pull your upper arms toward each other, forcing your chest upward and outward. I step around and admire the view for a few short moments.
Cuffs on your ankles and thighs complete your leathery ensemble. I lift the leash from the bedpost and lead you to the side of the bed. “Sit down and roll onto your tummy.” Chains and padlocks secure your ankles to each corner of the footboard and your thighs to the bedrails. I tie the leash to the center of the headboard, then stand back to admire my handiwork.
You lie stretched across the bed in a taut, inverted “Y.” I lift your head and insert an O-ring gag into your mouth, buckle a leather blindfold over your eyes, insert ear buds into your ears and turn on a recording of white noise.
Slow down, old boy. Don’t get so wrapped up in the bondage you miss out on the fun…
I sit beside you and softly begin caressing your neck, the sides of your breasts and the firm flesh of your backside. My hand wanders to your inner thighs, my fingers to the soft folds of your nether lips. They linger for several long minutes, massaging the sensitive flesh. When my fingers moisten and soft moans escape from your throat, I know you’re ready. I switch off the white noise.
“Don’t be alarmed, Sweet Girl, but there’s an intruder about to enter the back door.”
I press the lubricated plug against your sphincter, insert it a bit, withdraw it, then insert it again a bit deeper. Several repetitions later, it pops into place.
“This isn’t especially large, but it should make your dreams interesting. I’ve heard that bound women’s dreams are especially vivid. Nighty-night.”
Her
A loud slurping noise escapes my mouth as I draw a sharp intake of breath, goosebumps springing into existence with the cool metal plug's entry. It might not be large, but when you're stretched wide and unable to see what's going on, even a pinky finger inserted into that hole can deliver a jarring shock.
Sure, I've had plugs in my ass before, but never while helplessly bound and unable to resist, and never with so little notice. Besides, it's not a sensation I can ever imagine becoming accustomed to. The ass is designed for things to go out, not in; I've never experienced the latter without my body flinching in response. Enter mankind's unerring desire to subvert nature and an accessory designed specifically to nestle in nature's exhaust, using the body's own muscles to grip it in place no less, and you begin to understand why butt plugs are always something of a mind-fuck.
A departing of body heat informs me that you've left the bed, and the faint click of the door latching confirms I am now alone, having been "tucked in" for the night.
I curse quietly, half-mumbling, half-drooling into the pillow.
I roll my shoulders, trying to accustom myself to the uncomfortably tight coupling of my elbows. I pull at my thighs, trying to close my legs and regain some semblance of control over my plugged rear. I stretch my fingers down, kneading my naked ass, trying to reach the plug nestled in my backside.
All efforts prove futile. I can touch the plug, enough to appreciate its sleek chrome finish and bejeweled cap, but with my body working against me I lack the leverage to pull it out.
This is it, then. This is how I am to remain for the night, sleep or no.
Contrary to my expectations, I do eventually find myself drifting off into the land of nod. I'm not sure how long it takes, but eventually the aching of taut muscles diminishes with familiarity and the darkness becomes complete, consuming not only my vision but my mind as well.
For the first time in weeks, I dream. I dream of dark cobblestone alleyways and gloomy dungeons. Of devious devices and cruel predicaments. Time and time again I play the hapless victim in a rigged game. The images are wispy and elusive, but the sensations are as real as anything I've experienced. Are my ass cheeks really scalding from the bite of the whip? Is my clit really swollen from the touch of the feather? Is my face really crimson from the hands wrapped tightly around my neck?
They say arousal is born in the mind. My body certainly can't tell the difference. Undoubtedly I feel these sensations so vividly because I am responding to them -- not only in my dreams, but in the waking realm as well.
At some point I must have awoken, for I sense I am alone once more. Free of the torments of my imaginary captors but still very much in the clutches of a real one, I writhe once more to confirm what I already know. I might have regained consciousness, but I'm still blind, bound, and helpless -- and still wondering through the dark corridors of my vivid imagination, seeking my next thrill.
To be continued...
Links to all of my stories can be found here in the Story Catalog: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?f=46&t=6023
Part 12
Him
I glance at my watch. It’s been three hours since I dimmed the lights and began my vigil; time to change your position. Three hours is a long time to sit in the dark watching you squirm and sleep, but it would have been unsafe to leave you alone with that hard rubber ring wedged into your mouth. A good Master doesn’t break his toys…
As I approach the bed, you stir and flex your bound arms.
She’s awake again. Good. It’d be a shame to deprive her of sleep. The thought makes me chuckle. You cock your head toward the sound.
“Time to turn over, Sweet Girl,” I say as I unclasp the snap-link and liberate your elbows. Soon your wrists, ankles, and thighs are free as well. You stretch your tortured limbs and start to roll onto your back, but I hold you face-down. “Wait until I untie the leash.”
I undo the knot but keep the end of the leash in my hand.
“Now stand up. Time for a trip to the loo.”
I lead you, still blindfolded and gagged, into the bathroom and sit you down on the toilet. “I’ll be back in one minute. Leave the blindfold and gag in place.” I leave you to perform your ministrations in private. Only when I hear the toilet flush do I reenter the room.
I pick up the leash and lead you back to the bed. “Sit down and move to the center of the bed, this time face-up.”
Once again, I chain your ankle and thigh cuffs so your legs are spread wide. I do the same with your wrist and elbow cuffs, taking care to spreadeagle you so tautly you can hardly bend your limbs.
“I don’t want you to drown in your own saliva, so there will be no gag in this position,” I say as I unbuckle the rubber circle and remove it from your mouth. You flex your jaw and start to speak, but I shush you with a finger on your lips.
“One final thing and you can go back to sleep, Sweet Girl.”
You feel my fingers gently spread your labia, and you gasp as I slide a lubricated stainless-steel egg deep into your sex.
“Its vibrator is set on ‘low,’ and the timer is set to activate it at random intervals for random lengths of time. That should keep you dreaming pleasant dreams.”
I slide a pillow under your head, tweak your nipples and give you a gentle slap on your mons veneris.
“Good night, Sweet Girl. I guess this brings a whole new meaning to the expression, ‘sleep tight.’” Even in the dim light, I see the blindfold move from the force of your eye-roll.
I switch on a baby monitor, switch off the lights and head off to bed.
Her
I'm grateful for the change of position, and the much-needed trip to the bathroom, but I'm not sure that my new spreadeagle position is any more conducive to sleep. I feel like the slightest breeze will set me off, writhing violently in the unyielding restraints.
Then again, if you wanted me to sleep you wouldn't have slipped a vibrator inside me. I don't need pleasant dreams when I have the real thing right here. I can feel it now, buried deep inside me, not far from my sensitive g-spot.
A low hum splits the silence as it whirs to life, and I jerk at the sudden stimulation. Low or not, that little egg packs a punch. It's like an itch I have to scratch, except no amount of tugging at these chains is going to let me fulfill that need. I can only moan in frustration, gyrating my hips as if humping the air somehow helps my cause.
The vibrations cease as suddenly as they began, and my moan turns to a whine. How can I sleep like this? I can only hope it isn't enough to wake me up if I do eventually nod off.
The vibrator starts and stops a number of times before my body surrenders to the embrace of sleep. Apparently there's only so many times you can clench and relax at the edge of climax before those muscles are simply too tired to respond.
My dreams are sweet, unbearably so, because I find myself teased and tormented by my shadowy captors to the point of incoherence. Maybe the sounds escaping my throat aren't entirely in my head, either.
When a hand touches my side I know immediately I am awake, and the full awareness of my bondage comes rushing back.
"Sir?" I ask hoarsely, head turning towards your assumed position in the darkness.
Him
“Soy aqui,” I say, disguising my voice and using my best Spanish accent.
The unexpected voice startles you visibly.
“Just jerking your chain, Sweet Girl,” I say in my natural voice. “You seem to have a lot of chains for me to jerk. Let me get you out of them.”
It takes a couple of minutes to withdraw the egg, open all the padlocks and free you from your bonds. I take your hand and help you stand beside the bed. The blindfold comes off last, and you blink at the morning sunlight streaming through the windows.
“Here’s the deal,” I say. “Go do your business and freshen up a bit, then go to the kitchen and fix us a light breakfast while I prepare your next adventure. You’ll find what you need on the counter and in the fridge. And unless you want to spend the rest of the weekend tied up and locked in a chastity belt, don’t even think of trying to satisfy your pent-up frustrations from last night. Your orgasms belong to me.”
I turn and head for my den, leaving you to your tasks.
Her
I put a hand against the wall to brace myself as my muscles re-adjust to supporting my weight. My joints feel like lead, stiff and sore. Not a great way to start a bondage weekend.
What were you thinking, girl? I berate myself.
I walk over to the vanity and look myself over in the mirror. Besides the usual morning hair, I actually look to be in decent shape. My exhaustion could be largely mental then, induced by a fitful and unsatisfying rest. Speaking of unsatisfying... My eyes drop to my cleft. Still red, still puffy, still glistening with arousal. I suppose that's not going to change any time soon.
My hand slides across for a more tactile inspection but I stop myself halfway.
Nuh-uh. If you go there you won't have the strength to turn back, admonishes the prissy side of my conscience. I clench my fist and force my hand to retreat, glaring at the needy thing instead.
I proceed to the bathroom to freshen up, this time spending an adequate amount of time on my makeup to restore the nubile girl-next-door look I sport so well. I fasten my long bottle-red hair into two simple pigtails falling past each ear.
Next stop: the kitchen. Breakfast might be the most important meal of the day, but I don't usually bother with it so my imagination is a bit lacking. I find some bacon in the fridge and throw it in a pan with some eggs, followed by some tomato and dried basil.
The kitchen window looks out onto the street, so as I stoke the contents of the pan I idly observe the passers-by. The morning frost has all but evaporated and the only traffic through this street is the occasional runner or dog being walked. One man glances in my direction and smiles broadly. I smile back, then remember a moment later that I'm not wearing a stitch of clothing. I duck down, blushing furiously as I wonder how much he could see.
Topless girls parading around your living room must be a common sight for the neighbors, I realize. But the realization doesn't make me any less embarrassed.
I serve the bacon, eggs, and tomato on a piece of toast for each of us and raise my voice to announce its completion.
To be continued...
Him
I glance at my watch. It’s been three hours since I dimmed the lights and began my vigil; time to change your position. Three hours is a long time to sit in the dark watching you squirm and sleep, but it would have been unsafe to leave you alone with that hard rubber ring wedged into your mouth. A good Master doesn’t break his toys…
As I approach the bed, you stir and flex your bound arms.
She’s awake again. Good. It’d be a shame to deprive her of sleep. The thought makes me chuckle. You cock your head toward the sound.
“Time to turn over, Sweet Girl,” I say as I unclasp the snap-link and liberate your elbows. Soon your wrists, ankles, and thighs are free as well. You stretch your tortured limbs and start to roll onto your back, but I hold you face-down. “Wait until I untie the leash.”
I undo the knot but keep the end of the leash in my hand.
“Now stand up. Time for a trip to the loo.”
I lead you, still blindfolded and gagged, into the bathroom and sit you down on the toilet. “I’ll be back in one minute. Leave the blindfold and gag in place.” I leave you to perform your ministrations in private. Only when I hear the toilet flush do I reenter the room.
I pick up the leash and lead you back to the bed. “Sit down and move to the center of the bed, this time face-up.”
Once again, I chain your ankle and thigh cuffs so your legs are spread wide. I do the same with your wrist and elbow cuffs, taking care to spreadeagle you so tautly you can hardly bend your limbs.
“I don’t want you to drown in your own saliva, so there will be no gag in this position,” I say as I unbuckle the rubber circle and remove it from your mouth. You flex your jaw and start to speak, but I shush you with a finger on your lips.
“One final thing and you can go back to sleep, Sweet Girl.”
You feel my fingers gently spread your labia, and you gasp as I slide a lubricated stainless-steel egg deep into your sex.
“Its vibrator is set on ‘low,’ and the timer is set to activate it at random intervals for random lengths of time. That should keep you dreaming pleasant dreams.”
I slide a pillow under your head, tweak your nipples and give you a gentle slap on your mons veneris.
“Good night, Sweet Girl. I guess this brings a whole new meaning to the expression, ‘sleep tight.’” Even in the dim light, I see the blindfold move from the force of your eye-roll.
I switch on a baby monitor, switch off the lights and head off to bed.
Her
I'm grateful for the change of position, and the much-needed trip to the bathroom, but I'm not sure that my new spreadeagle position is any more conducive to sleep. I feel like the slightest breeze will set me off, writhing violently in the unyielding restraints.
Then again, if you wanted me to sleep you wouldn't have slipped a vibrator inside me. I don't need pleasant dreams when I have the real thing right here. I can feel it now, buried deep inside me, not far from my sensitive g-spot.
A low hum splits the silence as it whirs to life, and I jerk at the sudden stimulation. Low or not, that little egg packs a punch. It's like an itch I have to scratch, except no amount of tugging at these chains is going to let me fulfill that need. I can only moan in frustration, gyrating my hips as if humping the air somehow helps my cause.
The vibrations cease as suddenly as they began, and my moan turns to a whine. How can I sleep like this? I can only hope it isn't enough to wake me up if I do eventually nod off.
The vibrator starts and stops a number of times before my body surrenders to the embrace of sleep. Apparently there's only so many times you can clench and relax at the edge of climax before those muscles are simply too tired to respond.
My dreams are sweet, unbearably so, because I find myself teased and tormented by my shadowy captors to the point of incoherence. Maybe the sounds escaping my throat aren't entirely in my head, either.
When a hand touches my side I know immediately I am awake, and the full awareness of my bondage comes rushing back.
"Sir?" I ask hoarsely, head turning towards your assumed position in the darkness.
Him
“Soy aqui,” I say, disguising my voice and using my best Spanish accent.
The unexpected voice startles you visibly.
“Just jerking your chain, Sweet Girl,” I say in my natural voice. “You seem to have a lot of chains for me to jerk. Let me get you out of them.”
It takes a couple of minutes to withdraw the egg, open all the padlocks and free you from your bonds. I take your hand and help you stand beside the bed. The blindfold comes off last, and you blink at the morning sunlight streaming through the windows.
“Here’s the deal,” I say. “Go do your business and freshen up a bit, then go to the kitchen and fix us a light breakfast while I prepare your next adventure. You’ll find what you need on the counter and in the fridge. And unless you want to spend the rest of the weekend tied up and locked in a chastity belt, don’t even think of trying to satisfy your pent-up frustrations from last night. Your orgasms belong to me.”
I turn and head for my den, leaving you to your tasks.
Her
I put a hand against the wall to brace myself as my muscles re-adjust to supporting my weight. My joints feel like lead, stiff and sore. Not a great way to start a bondage weekend.
What were you thinking, girl? I berate myself.
I walk over to the vanity and look myself over in the mirror. Besides the usual morning hair, I actually look to be in decent shape. My exhaustion could be largely mental then, induced by a fitful and unsatisfying rest. Speaking of unsatisfying... My eyes drop to my cleft. Still red, still puffy, still glistening with arousal. I suppose that's not going to change any time soon.
My hand slides across for a more tactile inspection but I stop myself halfway.
Nuh-uh. If you go there you won't have the strength to turn back, admonishes the prissy side of my conscience. I clench my fist and force my hand to retreat, glaring at the needy thing instead.
I proceed to the bathroom to freshen up, this time spending an adequate amount of time on my makeup to restore the nubile girl-next-door look I sport so well. I fasten my long bottle-red hair into two simple pigtails falling past each ear.
Next stop: the kitchen. Breakfast might be the most important meal of the day, but I don't usually bother with it so my imagination is a bit lacking. I find some bacon in the fridge and throw it in a pan with some eggs, followed by some tomato and dried basil.
The kitchen window looks out onto the street, so as I stoke the contents of the pan I idly observe the passers-by. The morning frost has all but evaporated and the only traffic through this street is the occasional runner or dog being walked. One man glances in my direction and smiles broadly. I smile back, then remember a moment later that I'm not wearing a stitch of clothing. I duck down, blushing furiously as I wonder how much he could see.
Topless girls parading around your living room must be a common sight for the neighbors, I realize. But the realization doesn't make me any less embarrassed.
I serve the bacon, eggs, and tomato on a piece of toast for each of us and raise my voice to announce its completion.
To be continued...
Links to all of my stories can be found here in the Story Catalog: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?f=46&t=6023
Two more wonderful parts to enjoy, this is sensual submission if ever there was
-
RopingRingers
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 488
- Joined: 4 years ago
Two for One special, what a gift to have right before bed 
bloody excellent yet again 
although I couldn't fathom sleeping in bondage. I am such a picky sleeper lol id be awake all damn night 
bloody excellent yet again 
although I couldn't fathom sleeping in bondage. I am such a picky sleeper lol id be awake all damn night 
Part 13
Him
“Nicely done, Sweet Girl,” I say as I rummage through the refrigerator for orange juice and pour us each a glass. “That looks delectable…and so do you, by the way.”
Your face flushes yet again. I’ve seen every square centimeter of your naked body, plumbed the depth of your sex, violated your backside and tortured your nipples, and yet I can make you blush with a simple compliment.
I’ll never understand women, I muse.
We dig into breakfast with gusto.
“Today should be an interesting day,” I say pleasantly between bites. “It occurs to me you haven’t yet enjoyed any rope bondage this weekend. We’ll remedy that situation shortly. Before that, though, I’d like you to share some thoughts about your experiences here so far. Speak your mind; I promise not to penalize you for honesty. Heck, I might even reward you."
Her
I grin broadly at the mention of rope. Despite the number of ways modern technology allows a woman to be bound, rope remains one of my favorites.
"Well, Sir, my experiences so far have been mind-blowing. I've learnt so much about what I can handle and what I can't without cumming helplessly," I blush. "And as frustrating as it was, I have to say spending the night bound has been my favorite part so far. I've never done anything like that before."
You nod with understanding so I continue, emboldened. "But if I may say so, I don't understand what you mean when you say you own my orgasms, Sir. You say you don't want me to cum yet, but I don't understand why. Don't you want me to have fun?" I ask slyly, furrowing my brow as I peer at you hopefully.
Him
"Sure, I want you to have fun, Sweet Girl. Fun is the whole idea behind this weekend -- for both of us."
I pause dramatically. "The centerpiece of our agreement is that you become my bondage slave for the duration of your visit. If you are my slave, you are my property. Your mind and your soul are yours, of course, but your body and its functions are mine.
"I exercise control over your body by restraining your limbs, robbing you of speech and depriving you of sight. I exercise control over your mind -- your force of will -- by controlling your orgasms.
"My goal is twofold: To watch you strain against your bonds as you teeter on the edge of ecstasy, which flips my switch; and to concentrate your sexual tension so that your release, when it comes, is all the more powerful and satisfying."
Then it's my turn to be sly. I peer over my glasses and arch my eyebrows.
"Are you saying you aren't having fun, Sweet Girl?"
Her
If I needed any convincing that you get off on my frustration, I see ample evidence of it in your eyes and your smile as you passionately explain the purpose of the weekend's many bondage predicaments. It's clear that you love this stuff even more than I do -- for me, submitting to an experienced master is a curiosity, a fantasy I've finally decided to indulge for the weekend. For you, binding and teasing submissive girls is your lifestyle, something you do frequently and enjoy it every time.
Such is the passion in your voice that I feel myself becoming affected by your words. As you speak about ownership my denied pussy tingles with anticipation. As you speak about restraint my wrists shift to the small of my back, remembering how it felt to have my arms helplessly bound behind me. As you speak of edging and ecstasy the room seems to grow 10 degrees hotter and my skin flushes warmly.
You chuckle as my body answers your question without uttering a word. I bite my lower lip and grin back.
"I think I need to feel that rope now, Sir."
To be continued...
Him
“Nicely done, Sweet Girl,” I say as I rummage through the refrigerator for orange juice and pour us each a glass. “That looks delectable…and so do you, by the way.”
Your face flushes yet again. I’ve seen every square centimeter of your naked body, plumbed the depth of your sex, violated your backside and tortured your nipples, and yet I can make you blush with a simple compliment.
I’ll never understand women, I muse.
We dig into breakfast with gusto.
“Today should be an interesting day,” I say pleasantly between bites. “It occurs to me you haven’t yet enjoyed any rope bondage this weekend. We’ll remedy that situation shortly. Before that, though, I’d like you to share some thoughts about your experiences here so far. Speak your mind; I promise not to penalize you for honesty. Heck, I might even reward you."
Her
I grin broadly at the mention of rope. Despite the number of ways modern technology allows a woman to be bound, rope remains one of my favorites.
"Well, Sir, my experiences so far have been mind-blowing. I've learnt so much about what I can handle and what I can't without cumming helplessly," I blush. "And as frustrating as it was, I have to say spending the night bound has been my favorite part so far. I've never done anything like that before."
You nod with understanding so I continue, emboldened. "But if I may say so, I don't understand what you mean when you say you own my orgasms, Sir. You say you don't want me to cum yet, but I don't understand why. Don't you want me to have fun?" I ask slyly, furrowing my brow as I peer at you hopefully.
Him
"Sure, I want you to have fun, Sweet Girl. Fun is the whole idea behind this weekend -- for both of us."
I pause dramatically. "The centerpiece of our agreement is that you become my bondage slave for the duration of your visit. If you are my slave, you are my property. Your mind and your soul are yours, of course, but your body and its functions are mine.
"I exercise control over your body by restraining your limbs, robbing you of speech and depriving you of sight. I exercise control over your mind -- your force of will -- by controlling your orgasms.
"My goal is twofold: To watch you strain against your bonds as you teeter on the edge of ecstasy, which flips my switch; and to concentrate your sexual tension so that your release, when it comes, is all the more powerful and satisfying."
Then it's my turn to be sly. I peer over my glasses and arch my eyebrows.
"Are you saying you aren't having fun, Sweet Girl?"
Her
If I needed any convincing that you get off on my frustration, I see ample evidence of it in your eyes and your smile as you passionately explain the purpose of the weekend's many bondage predicaments. It's clear that you love this stuff even more than I do -- for me, submitting to an experienced master is a curiosity, a fantasy I've finally decided to indulge for the weekend. For you, binding and teasing submissive girls is your lifestyle, something you do frequently and enjoy it every time.
Such is the passion in your voice that I feel myself becoming affected by your words. As you speak about ownership my denied pussy tingles with anticipation. As you speak about restraint my wrists shift to the small of my back, remembering how it felt to have my arms helplessly bound behind me. As you speak of edging and ecstasy the room seems to grow 10 degrees hotter and my skin flushes warmly.
You chuckle as my body answers your question without uttering a word. I bite my lower lip and grin back.
"I think I need to feel that rope now, Sir."
To be continued...
Links to all of my stories can be found here in the Story Catalog: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?f=46&t=6023
Part 14
Him
“I think you do, too. Shall we?” I gesture toward the den. You follow half a pace behind, head bowed, wrists still crossed at the small of your back.
“This will be a test of physical endurance,” I announce as we enter the den. “I want to see how long you can stay in a category-five hogtie before you tap out. Hold your hands out in front.”
From my gear bag on the sofa I retrieve a roll of black veterinarian’s wrap. “Make a fist.”
Starting just above your wrist, I spiral the stretchy fabric down to your knuckles, trapping your thumb over your fingers as I go. Two short pieces of wrap, stuck perpendicular to the spiral, seal off the end of the bondage. Two more wraps secure the ends of the two perpendicular pieces. I inspect the results and smile. No way she’s picking any knots with that hand…
The other hand soon wears a similar black cocoon.
“Now, Sweet Girl, time to tie you up good and proper.”
I dump a pile of bundled black nylon ropes out of the bag. You cross your wrists behind your back, but I grab them and rearrange them so they’re parallel. Five wraps of the doubled rope pull them close together, and two cinches solidify the tie.
“Stand here and spread your legs.”
I pass a lark’s-headed rope behind your back, pass the other free end through the loop and pull down, snugging the doubled cord around the small of your waist. I pass the free end through your legs and pull upward, burying the crotch-rope deep into your cleft. As soon as it settles, I pull it back out, gauging just where to place a figure-8 “happy knot.” Satisfied, I tug the knot until it covers your clitoris, pass the free ends through the waist rope, then pass the ends back through your legs, this time on the outsides of your labia. A final knot in the small of your back completes the rig.
I pat the sofa’s cushions. “Lie down on your tummy.” As soon as you’re positioned properly, I grab one ankle and pull it up so your heel rests against your backside. A long rope, looped and cinched, secures it there. I repeat the process for the other leg.
“The great thing about frog-leg ties is that they don’t close off access to your interesting bits,” I say, and drive the point home by reaching between your thighs and pressing the happy knot hard against your most erogenous of zones. You grind your hips wantonly against my fingers.
Another long rope, looped and cinched around your upper arms, pulls your elbows tightly together. I secure the tie by looping a shorter rope around the cinches, then running the long ends under your arms, up and over the back of your neck, and back to the cinches three times before knotting it off.
“That’s the easy stuff. It gets more fun from here.”
I spread your legs wide apart and secure them there by running ropes between the outsides of the frog-leg ties and the yoke I’ve just created at the back of your neck.
I loop cords around each of your pigtails and, pulling hard, secure them to the frog-leg ties as well. You wriggle a bit to test your bonds, but soon discover that trying to close your legs pulls your shoulders farther back toward your feet, and pulls your hair as well.
Short lengths of black paracord, looped and cinched around and between your big toes and stretched tautly to your pigtails, complete your bondage -- well, almost.
“Open wide.” The ball gag squeaks between your teeth as it settles home. I pull the strap to its very last notch and buckle it.
“Now, listen. I’m going to start the timer in a few seconds. Your job is to endure this position for as long as you can. Grunt sharply three times when you’ve had enough.”
I smack you sharply on the left cheek of your backside. “Your time begins…now.”
Her
I allow myself to go limp as you manhandle me, happily letting your skilled hands mold my body as your imagination requires. I feel a little rush as each small freedom is stripped away, from my major motor functions to my wriggling toes and finally my voice. But with each tie I also feel a stab of trepidation, especially knowing this would be a position you don't expect me to hold for very long.
There comes a point when I wonder if I should have resisted, fighting for a little extra leeway in one tie or another, instead of giving you free rein to bind and constrict me as you desire. But by this point second thoughts are a luxury you've stolen from me and a smack to my ass signals the start of the endurance challenge.
I inhale deeply and heave in all directions at one, which immediately transpires to be a big mistake. My frogtied legs tug at my arms and hair, craning my neck back. With a grunt I splay my thighs apart again, huffing in complaint as you pat the knot half-buried in my moist cleft.
At least I can see this time. You've propped me up in front of a floor-length mirror, providing a full view of everything around and behind me. Seeing myself so securely bound and gagged is an enlightening experience. Somehow the bondage looks even stricter than it feels -- my hair is pulled taut and my knees are hovering a few inches in the air. My vet-wrapped fists flap uselessly against the soft flesh of my ass cheeks, helpless to untie any knots even if I could budge them close enough to one.
I begrudgingly conclude that escape is impossible, and your smug grin confirms it. Your fingers idly trace the rope splitting my pussy in two, occasionally pressing the knot in deeper just to watch me squirm. I try to remain impassive and deny you the satisfaction, but this, too, proves a lost cause.
Every fiber of my being is crying out for relief but I stubbornly cling on, determined to last as long as possible. My big toes feel like they're about to fall off; my arms feel like they've been wrenched from their sockets; my inner thighs are throbbing with the effort of been held open.
Finally I can hold it no longer, so I grunt three times and wait desperately for you to come to the rescue.
To be continued...
Him
“I think you do, too. Shall we?” I gesture toward the den. You follow half a pace behind, head bowed, wrists still crossed at the small of your back.
“This will be a test of physical endurance,” I announce as we enter the den. “I want to see how long you can stay in a category-five hogtie before you tap out. Hold your hands out in front.”
From my gear bag on the sofa I retrieve a roll of black veterinarian’s wrap. “Make a fist.”
Starting just above your wrist, I spiral the stretchy fabric down to your knuckles, trapping your thumb over your fingers as I go. Two short pieces of wrap, stuck perpendicular to the spiral, seal off the end of the bondage. Two more wraps secure the ends of the two perpendicular pieces. I inspect the results and smile. No way she’s picking any knots with that hand…
The other hand soon wears a similar black cocoon.
“Now, Sweet Girl, time to tie you up good and proper.”
I dump a pile of bundled black nylon ropes out of the bag. You cross your wrists behind your back, but I grab them and rearrange them so they’re parallel. Five wraps of the doubled rope pull them close together, and two cinches solidify the tie.
“Stand here and spread your legs.”
I pass a lark’s-headed rope behind your back, pass the other free end through the loop and pull down, snugging the doubled cord around the small of your waist. I pass the free end through your legs and pull upward, burying the crotch-rope deep into your cleft. As soon as it settles, I pull it back out, gauging just where to place a figure-8 “happy knot.” Satisfied, I tug the knot until it covers your clitoris, pass the free ends through the waist rope, then pass the ends back through your legs, this time on the outsides of your labia. A final knot in the small of your back completes the rig.
I pat the sofa’s cushions. “Lie down on your tummy.” As soon as you’re positioned properly, I grab one ankle and pull it up so your heel rests against your backside. A long rope, looped and cinched, secures it there. I repeat the process for the other leg.
“The great thing about frog-leg ties is that they don’t close off access to your interesting bits,” I say, and drive the point home by reaching between your thighs and pressing the happy knot hard against your most erogenous of zones. You grind your hips wantonly against my fingers.
Another long rope, looped and cinched around your upper arms, pulls your elbows tightly together. I secure the tie by looping a shorter rope around the cinches, then running the long ends under your arms, up and over the back of your neck, and back to the cinches three times before knotting it off.
“That’s the easy stuff. It gets more fun from here.”
I spread your legs wide apart and secure them there by running ropes between the outsides of the frog-leg ties and the yoke I’ve just created at the back of your neck.
I loop cords around each of your pigtails and, pulling hard, secure them to the frog-leg ties as well. You wriggle a bit to test your bonds, but soon discover that trying to close your legs pulls your shoulders farther back toward your feet, and pulls your hair as well.
Short lengths of black paracord, looped and cinched around and between your big toes and stretched tautly to your pigtails, complete your bondage -- well, almost.
“Open wide.” The ball gag squeaks between your teeth as it settles home. I pull the strap to its very last notch and buckle it.
“Now, listen. I’m going to start the timer in a few seconds. Your job is to endure this position for as long as you can. Grunt sharply three times when you’ve had enough.”
I smack you sharply on the left cheek of your backside. “Your time begins…now.”
Her
I allow myself to go limp as you manhandle me, happily letting your skilled hands mold my body as your imagination requires. I feel a little rush as each small freedom is stripped away, from my major motor functions to my wriggling toes and finally my voice. But with each tie I also feel a stab of trepidation, especially knowing this would be a position you don't expect me to hold for very long.
There comes a point when I wonder if I should have resisted, fighting for a little extra leeway in one tie or another, instead of giving you free rein to bind and constrict me as you desire. But by this point second thoughts are a luxury you've stolen from me and a smack to my ass signals the start of the endurance challenge.
I inhale deeply and heave in all directions at one, which immediately transpires to be a big mistake. My frogtied legs tug at my arms and hair, craning my neck back. With a grunt I splay my thighs apart again, huffing in complaint as you pat the knot half-buried in my moist cleft.
At least I can see this time. You've propped me up in front of a floor-length mirror, providing a full view of everything around and behind me. Seeing myself so securely bound and gagged is an enlightening experience. Somehow the bondage looks even stricter than it feels -- my hair is pulled taut and my knees are hovering a few inches in the air. My vet-wrapped fists flap uselessly against the soft flesh of my ass cheeks, helpless to untie any knots even if I could budge them close enough to one.
I begrudgingly conclude that escape is impossible, and your smug grin confirms it. Your fingers idly trace the rope splitting my pussy in two, occasionally pressing the knot in deeper just to watch me squirm. I try to remain impassive and deny you the satisfaction, but this, too, proves a lost cause.
Every fiber of my being is crying out for relief but I stubbornly cling on, determined to last as long as possible. My big toes feel like they're about to fall off; my arms feel like they've been wrenched from their sockets; my inner thighs are throbbing with the effort of been held open.
Finally I can hold it no longer, so I grunt three times and wait desperately for you to come to the rescue.
To be continued...
Links to all of my stories can be found here in the Story Catalog: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?f=46&t=6023
-
RopingRingers
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 488
- Joined: 4 years ago
Another twofer, holy crap lol you're churning out the quality work like it's a conveyor belt mates
Part 15
Him
“Not bad, Sweet Girl! Twenty-one minutes and thirty-two seconds. I’m quite impressed,” I say as my paramedic shears make short work of the ropes binding your tortured limbs. “If you liked this position, you’re going to love the next one.”
I pry the ball gag from your mouth, then untie the ropes still entwined in your pigtails. Only then do you begin to work the stiffness out of your shoulders and legs.
“Here. Have some water.” I hand you a chilled bottle. “Good hydration makes the rope marks go away faster.”
You gulp the water greedily. Once you’ve slaked your thirst, I pull you to your feet and snip the knots on your crotch rope. The outer ropes fall to the floor, but the rope inside your cleft remains wedged there. Slowly, teasingly, I pull it away, taking care to make sure it sends a tingle through your loins as it goes.
“There! All free!” I say cheerily. “Don’t get used to it, because in a few minutes you’re going to be trussed up to your heart’s content.”
We spend that interval making small talk that somehow always seems to return to bondage. You ask me how many women I’ve tied during my lifetime, and you seem impressed when I say you’re the fifty-third. I ask you how many ball gags you have at home, and I’m surprised when you say only three.
When I feel you’ve rested and recuperated enough, I lay out the scenario for your next bondage.
“I’m calling this one ‘the lady’s choice.’ Here’s how it’s going to work. You tell me exactly how you want to be tied -- what kind of ropes, where they go, how tight, the whole enchilada. This is your chance to experience the kind of bondage you’ve fantasized about. After I get you rigged to your satisfaction, I’ll accessorize you however you like -- gag, blindfold, clamps, plugs, whatever. Got it? Now, Sweet Girl, where do I start?”
Her
My eyes widen at your unexpected offer. To be sure, there are positions I've always fantasized about trying. The hogtie was one such position, so now I can happily check that one off the list -- not that I don't want to try it again! There are many more forms of hogties to experience, and some of them might even be comfortable enough to stay in for an extended struggle session.
The second kind of bondage that immediately jumps to mind is a suspension tie. Being held in the air in some helpless position with only rope supporting me has long been a fantasy of mine. But beyond that, I haven't thought much about what the position might look like. A suspended hogtie? Perhaps a bit extreme for my first suspension. Arms overhead, feet en pointe like a long caterpillar? That seems a bit boring. How about the splits? That would make things interesting. Ooh, and definitely a crotch rope too.
But how would my arms be tied? A box tie? No, too easy. An armbinder? Nah, as sexy as armbinders are, I want to keep with the rope aesthetic for now. And I don't want to be able to reach my crotch and intervene with the crotch rope. Which leaves... Reverse prayer? My shoulders twitch at the idea alone.
I suddenly recall an image I saw long ago of a stunning blonde model tied in such a position. She had been on the floor, but the pose had been strikingly evocative. Legs pointed in opposite directions, ass cheeks facing up, pussy exposed for play. Back arched, wrists pinned to the middle of her back in reverse prayer. She'd also had a two-pronged hook yanking her head back by the nostrils and attached to a metal hook in her ass. I have a feeling this would be the straw that breaks the camel's back, so I'll leave out that part from my description and hope you don't conceive of a similar torment. Come to think of it, the girl had also been choked and nipple-clamped in that position, making her one of the toughest models I've ever seen.
Hmm, what else... Pigtails tied to toes? All right, now I'm just plotting my own demise!
I explain the position to you, careful to hit the main points of my fantasy: suspension, splits, crotch rope, reverse prayer. I realize I've designed a somewhat grueling predicament for myself, and your additions will probably only make it worse. But where's the adventure in holding back? This weekend is all about leaving my comfort zone.
You nod in understanding as I speak and my anticipation kindles as I notice the way you look me over, sizing me up, planning your approach.
But I have one more request, a slightly unusual one, to which I'm not sure how you'll respond.
"Sir, would it be alright if you take some pictures of the process? I would love to have a memento to remember this weekend by, for, ahh... nostalgic purposes."
To be continued...
Him
“Not bad, Sweet Girl! Twenty-one minutes and thirty-two seconds. I’m quite impressed,” I say as my paramedic shears make short work of the ropes binding your tortured limbs. “If you liked this position, you’re going to love the next one.”
I pry the ball gag from your mouth, then untie the ropes still entwined in your pigtails. Only then do you begin to work the stiffness out of your shoulders and legs.
“Here. Have some water.” I hand you a chilled bottle. “Good hydration makes the rope marks go away faster.”
You gulp the water greedily. Once you’ve slaked your thirst, I pull you to your feet and snip the knots on your crotch rope. The outer ropes fall to the floor, but the rope inside your cleft remains wedged there. Slowly, teasingly, I pull it away, taking care to make sure it sends a tingle through your loins as it goes.
“There! All free!” I say cheerily. “Don’t get used to it, because in a few minutes you’re going to be trussed up to your heart’s content.”
We spend that interval making small talk that somehow always seems to return to bondage. You ask me how many women I’ve tied during my lifetime, and you seem impressed when I say you’re the fifty-third. I ask you how many ball gags you have at home, and I’m surprised when you say only three.
When I feel you’ve rested and recuperated enough, I lay out the scenario for your next bondage.
“I’m calling this one ‘the lady’s choice.’ Here’s how it’s going to work. You tell me exactly how you want to be tied -- what kind of ropes, where they go, how tight, the whole enchilada. This is your chance to experience the kind of bondage you’ve fantasized about. After I get you rigged to your satisfaction, I’ll accessorize you however you like -- gag, blindfold, clamps, plugs, whatever. Got it? Now, Sweet Girl, where do I start?”
Her
My eyes widen at your unexpected offer. To be sure, there are positions I've always fantasized about trying. The hogtie was one such position, so now I can happily check that one off the list -- not that I don't want to try it again! There are many more forms of hogties to experience, and some of them might even be comfortable enough to stay in for an extended struggle session.
The second kind of bondage that immediately jumps to mind is a suspension tie. Being held in the air in some helpless position with only rope supporting me has long been a fantasy of mine. But beyond that, I haven't thought much about what the position might look like. A suspended hogtie? Perhaps a bit extreme for my first suspension. Arms overhead, feet en pointe like a long caterpillar? That seems a bit boring. How about the splits? That would make things interesting. Ooh, and definitely a crotch rope too.
But how would my arms be tied? A box tie? No, too easy. An armbinder? Nah, as sexy as armbinders are, I want to keep with the rope aesthetic for now. And I don't want to be able to reach my crotch and intervene with the crotch rope. Which leaves... Reverse prayer? My shoulders twitch at the idea alone.
I suddenly recall an image I saw long ago of a stunning blonde model tied in such a position. She had been on the floor, but the pose had been strikingly evocative. Legs pointed in opposite directions, ass cheeks facing up, pussy exposed for play. Back arched, wrists pinned to the middle of her back in reverse prayer. She'd also had a two-pronged hook yanking her head back by the nostrils and attached to a metal hook in her ass. I have a feeling this would be the straw that breaks the camel's back, so I'll leave out that part from my description and hope you don't conceive of a similar torment. Come to think of it, the girl had also been choked and nipple-clamped in that position, making her one of the toughest models I've ever seen.
Hmm, what else... Pigtails tied to toes? All right, now I'm just plotting my own demise!
I explain the position to you, careful to hit the main points of my fantasy: suspension, splits, crotch rope, reverse prayer. I realize I've designed a somewhat grueling predicament for myself, and your additions will probably only make it worse. But where's the adventure in holding back? This weekend is all about leaving my comfort zone.
You nod in understanding as I speak and my anticipation kindles as I notice the way you look me over, sizing me up, planning your approach.
But I have one more request, a slightly unusual one, to which I'm not sure how you'll respond.
"Sir, would it be alright if you take some pictures of the process? I would love to have a memento to remember this weekend by, for, ahh... nostalgic purposes."
To be continued...
Links to all of my stories can be found here in the Story Catalog: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?f=46&t=6023
-
RopingRingers
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 488
- Joined: 4 years ago
"nostalgic purposes" made me smile lol. Sometimes, adult literature is so much better than adult entertainment, simply because the vulgarity of porn takes a back seat to more realistic wordplay and descriptions that invoke imagination, instead of just presenting it all on a silver platter
Part 16
Him
It would be an understatement to say your wish list piques my interest.
I, too, have fantasized about inflicting a similar tie on some pretty young thing, and here you are practically begging for it. I’m not by nature a cruel person, but occasionally I allow the Simon Legree within me to come out and play. So what do I do?
“I hope you’re flexible,” I say, hoping my raised eyebrow and lopsided smile adequately disguise the sudden trepidation I feel. “And I hope you can take a little pain. Unless you’re a total masochist, this isn’t going to be comfortable. Wait here.”
From a large closet off the side of the den, I retrieve a sturdy 7-foot bamboo pole, a full 4 inches in diameter, and run heavy nylon ropes from it up to widely spaced hard points in the den ceiling. You peer at the log quizzically. “That’s for later,” I explain. “This is for now.”
From another gear bag, I retrieve a dozen hanks of jute rope. Before I begin tying, though, I unsnap the latches on your metal collar and set the gleaming circlet aside. You begin to object, but I silence you. “Don’t worry. You’ll get it back later.”
I walk to the wall of bondage paraphernalia and return with a thick, rigid leather posture collar, which I buckle snugly around your neck. Its padded bottom edge rests on your collarbones, and its similarly padded top edge lifts and cradles your chin. I walk around you, and see that you have to turn your shoulders to follow me with your eyes.
“This won’t be a ‘classic’ reverse prayer,” I continue. “Your hands won’t be tied palm-to-palm. Instead, your wrists will be crossed high between your shoulder blades in a variation of the Chinese ‘Five Flowers’ tie. If you’re unfamiliar with that tie, let me warn you. It’s a torture tie often used on prisoners. Fortunately for you, I’m not going to wrap your arms tightly enough to cause much pain. You’ll suffer a bit, but you won’t lose circulation or incur any nerve damage.”
I unravel two long ropes and lay their center points against the back of your neck. First on one side, and then the other, I spiral the ends of the two ropes three times around your upper arms and three times around your lower arms and secure each side with a quick half-hitch.
“Now you’ll see what I mean.” I pull your arms behind your back and set them parallel to one another, as I would for a box tie. After wrapping the free ends of the ropes around and between your wrists, I pass them upward, under the parallel cords at the back of your neck, and pull downward until your wrists are hoisted high enough to form a perfect X between your shoulder blades.
From the yoke at the back of your neck, I pass the free ends through two of the spiral wraps on your upper arms and two on your lower arms, fashioning a taut webwork that locks your arms securely in place. Your hands flutter uselessly against your shoulder blades. Your upper and lower arms can’t move at all.
I spiral the remaining rope around the tie’s center stem and knot it off well out of the reach of your pinioned hands.
“Now for your crotch rope. For that I have something special.”
I pull a hank of dark, fuzzy-looking rope from my gear bag. “This is coconut rope. It’s rather prickly. I’m told being bound in this is a little like being bound in barbed wire.”
Your jaw drops and you start to protest, but think better of it and close your mouth firmly.
“Your stoicism is admirable, Sweet Girl,” I smile and wink. “I hope you don’t regret it.”
I pass the loop of rope around your waist and snug it up tightly enough to make the scratchy fibers dig hard into your pale flesh. I tie two overhand knots in the free end and pull down firmly, settling the rope deep into your ass cheeks and nether lips. The first knot presses squarely on your anus. The second knot burrows in and presses on your clitoris. I finish the tie with a knot just below your belly button. The crotch rope hasn’t been on a minute yet, and already I can see the skin surrounding the cruel cord beginning to redden.
“Ever have an itch you just can’t scratch?” I ask rhetorically, ignoring the dirty look you send my direction. “On second thought, I’d better make sure you can’t answer that. Open up.”
I insert a steel Jennings dental gag between your upper and lower teeth and press the device’s levers together, prying your jaws wide apart. With your neck already held rigidly by the posture collar, the forced opening of your mouth gives you no choice but to stare upward toward the ceiling.
“I’m going to lift you now,” I say, and ease your bound torso tummy-down onto the bamboo pole. One at a time, I stretch your ankles to opposite ends of the straw-colored culm and secure them there with cinched bands of jute. More bands, above and below your knees and at your hips, weld your legs to the pole and keep your backside tilted upward. I can’t resist giving your pert derriere a couple of sound thwacks with my open hand.
“Going up!” I announce as I fasten another heavy nylon rope to the center stem of the Five Flowers tie and pass it through the center overhead hard point. Taking all of the up-lines into my hands, I make three hard hauls and hoist your thoroughly trussed body waist-high into the air.
“There! All finished, Sweet Girl.” I give your thoroughly stretched ass a gentle push forward and watch you swing gently back and forth. “Except for one last detail.”
I drop to the floor, shimmy under you and attach clover clamps to your nipples. Onto each clamp I hang a one-ounce fishing sinker that dangles from a six-inch string.
“These will help you feel each and every movement you manage to make. You’re lucky I’m not a sadist, because this is where a sadist would pull out a feather and start tickling you unmercifully. I’m not a sadist, though, so you’ll have to settle for an occasional slap on the ass. Have fun!”
I prop my cell phone on the desk to record video, and pull my good camera from my desk to take stills.
"This is called lagniappe, a little something extra. When you're tired of perving the stills, you can catch every wiggle and whimper on video."
I raise the Nikon and, framing carefully to capture the most possible misery, start snapping...
Her
"Ahhh..." I intone uncertainly as I'm hoisted into the air by my crossed wrists and arms. My extremities are thoroughly pinned, alright. I can just about tap myself on the shoulder with my fingernail.
With my legs stretched wide apart and held against the bamboo, only one notable range of movement remains to me: I can wriggle my hips to my heart's content. My legs and torso are suspended by separate ropes, so I can twist and arch my lower back to change the angle of my legs. Of course, this is hardly a great freedom, and indeed all it really accomplishes is letting the rough crotch rope chafe my sensitive snatch even more than it is already, not to mention giving your phone's camera a more enticing show.
Basically, I'm stuck. Stuck in the air with a killer wedgie, searing nipples, and a pool of drool which is starting to overflow from my mouth and drip down my front. Lovely.
Perhaps it's my trembling muscles or my incoherent groans of discomfort that kindle some kind of pity in you, because the next thing I hear is a vibrator buzz to life. As you press it against my crotch rope we discover just how flexible these hips of mine really are. I buck and squirm under the relentless stimulation, but find no purchase to brace myself against and so I'm left struggling under its influence. My arms may well be set in carbonite for all the help they are.
You chuckle and press the device against the advantageously-placed coconut rope for a few seconds longer before relenting. But instead you shift the powerful vibrations to the sole of my left foot. I moan indignantly, trying to kick it away but succeeding only to make myself sway slightly.
You slide the vibrator up and down the length of my foot until my insistent struggles begin to bore you, then search for a new haunting ground. The back of my knee proves particularly ticklish, so you linger there for a time before jumping to my other leg to repeat the torment.
When my legs cease to hold your attention, you walk around to my front. Staring upward, I still can't see your hands, so I jerk in surprise as vibrations travel up from the fishing sinkers and through my tortured nipples. I wince and squint at the ceiling, wondering why I ever chose this for myself. But I know why, and so will anyone watching this footage. My pussy must be positively gleaming by now with the rope rubbing and spreading my juices around my nether lips as I struggle.
"Now then," you say, picking up another hank of rope. "Let's get that long hair of yours neatly out of the way, shall we?"
To be continued...
Him
It would be an understatement to say your wish list piques my interest.
I, too, have fantasized about inflicting a similar tie on some pretty young thing, and here you are practically begging for it. I’m not by nature a cruel person, but occasionally I allow the Simon Legree within me to come out and play. So what do I do?
“I hope you’re flexible,” I say, hoping my raised eyebrow and lopsided smile adequately disguise the sudden trepidation I feel. “And I hope you can take a little pain. Unless you’re a total masochist, this isn’t going to be comfortable. Wait here.”
From a large closet off the side of the den, I retrieve a sturdy 7-foot bamboo pole, a full 4 inches in diameter, and run heavy nylon ropes from it up to widely spaced hard points in the den ceiling. You peer at the log quizzically. “That’s for later,” I explain. “This is for now.”
From another gear bag, I retrieve a dozen hanks of jute rope. Before I begin tying, though, I unsnap the latches on your metal collar and set the gleaming circlet aside. You begin to object, but I silence you. “Don’t worry. You’ll get it back later.”
I walk to the wall of bondage paraphernalia and return with a thick, rigid leather posture collar, which I buckle snugly around your neck. Its padded bottom edge rests on your collarbones, and its similarly padded top edge lifts and cradles your chin. I walk around you, and see that you have to turn your shoulders to follow me with your eyes.
“This won’t be a ‘classic’ reverse prayer,” I continue. “Your hands won’t be tied palm-to-palm. Instead, your wrists will be crossed high between your shoulder blades in a variation of the Chinese ‘Five Flowers’ tie. If you’re unfamiliar with that tie, let me warn you. It’s a torture tie often used on prisoners. Fortunately for you, I’m not going to wrap your arms tightly enough to cause much pain. You’ll suffer a bit, but you won’t lose circulation or incur any nerve damage.”
I unravel two long ropes and lay their center points against the back of your neck. First on one side, and then the other, I spiral the ends of the two ropes three times around your upper arms and three times around your lower arms and secure each side with a quick half-hitch.
“Now you’ll see what I mean.” I pull your arms behind your back and set them parallel to one another, as I would for a box tie. After wrapping the free ends of the ropes around and between your wrists, I pass them upward, under the parallel cords at the back of your neck, and pull downward until your wrists are hoisted high enough to form a perfect X between your shoulder blades.
From the yoke at the back of your neck, I pass the free ends through two of the spiral wraps on your upper arms and two on your lower arms, fashioning a taut webwork that locks your arms securely in place. Your hands flutter uselessly against your shoulder blades. Your upper and lower arms can’t move at all.
I spiral the remaining rope around the tie’s center stem and knot it off well out of the reach of your pinioned hands.
“Now for your crotch rope. For that I have something special.”
I pull a hank of dark, fuzzy-looking rope from my gear bag. “This is coconut rope. It’s rather prickly. I’m told being bound in this is a little like being bound in barbed wire.”
Your jaw drops and you start to protest, but think better of it and close your mouth firmly.
“Your stoicism is admirable, Sweet Girl,” I smile and wink. “I hope you don’t regret it.”
I pass the loop of rope around your waist and snug it up tightly enough to make the scratchy fibers dig hard into your pale flesh. I tie two overhand knots in the free end and pull down firmly, settling the rope deep into your ass cheeks and nether lips. The first knot presses squarely on your anus. The second knot burrows in and presses on your clitoris. I finish the tie with a knot just below your belly button. The crotch rope hasn’t been on a minute yet, and already I can see the skin surrounding the cruel cord beginning to redden.
“Ever have an itch you just can’t scratch?” I ask rhetorically, ignoring the dirty look you send my direction. “On second thought, I’d better make sure you can’t answer that. Open up.”
I insert a steel Jennings dental gag between your upper and lower teeth and press the device’s levers together, prying your jaws wide apart. With your neck already held rigidly by the posture collar, the forced opening of your mouth gives you no choice but to stare upward toward the ceiling.
“I’m going to lift you now,” I say, and ease your bound torso tummy-down onto the bamboo pole. One at a time, I stretch your ankles to opposite ends of the straw-colored culm and secure them there with cinched bands of jute. More bands, above and below your knees and at your hips, weld your legs to the pole and keep your backside tilted upward. I can’t resist giving your pert derriere a couple of sound thwacks with my open hand.
“Going up!” I announce as I fasten another heavy nylon rope to the center stem of the Five Flowers tie and pass it through the center overhead hard point. Taking all of the up-lines into my hands, I make three hard hauls and hoist your thoroughly trussed body waist-high into the air.
“There! All finished, Sweet Girl.” I give your thoroughly stretched ass a gentle push forward and watch you swing gently back and forth. “Except for one last detail.”
I drop to the floor, shimmy under you and attach clover clamps to your nipples. Onto each clamp I hang a one-ounce fishing sinker that dangles from a six-inch string.
“These will help you feel each and every movement you manage to make. You’re lucky I’m not a sadist, because this is where a sadist would pull out a feather and start tickling you unmercifully. I’m not a sadist, though, so you’ll have to settle for an occasional slap on the ass. Have fun!”
I prop my cell phone on the desk to record video, and pull my good camera from my desk to take stills.
"This is called lagniappe, a little something extra. When you're tired of perving the stills, you can catch every wiggle and whimper on video."
I raise the Nikon and, framing carefully to capture the most possible misery, start snapping...
Her
"Ahhh..." I intone uncertainly as I'm hoisted into the air by my crossed wrists and arms. My extremities are thoroughly pinned, alright. I can just about tap myself on the shoulder with my fingernail.
With my legs stretched wide apart and held against the bamboo, only one notable range of movement remains to me: I can wriggle my hips to my heart's content. My legs and torso are suspended by separate ropes, so I can twist and arch my lower back to change the angle of my legs. Of course, this is hardly a great freedom, and indeed all it really accomplishes is letting the rough crotch rope chafe my sensitive snatch even more than it is already, not to mention giving your phone's camera a more enticing show.
Basically, I'm stuck. Stuck in the air with a killer wedgie, searing nipples, and a pool of drool which is starting to overflow from my mouth and drip down my front. Lovely.
Perhaps it's my trembling muscles or my incoherent groans of discomfort that kindle some kind of pity in you, because the next thing I hear is a vibrator buzz to life. As you press it against my crotch rope we discover just how flexible these hips of mine really are. I buck and squirm under the relentless stimulation, but find no purchase to brace myself against and so I'm left struggling under its influence. My arms may well be set in carbonite for all the help they are.
You chuckle and press the device against the advantageously-placed coconut rope for a few seconds longer before relenting. But instead you shift the powerful vibrations to the sole of my left foot. I moan indignantly, trying to kick it away but succeeding only to make myself sway slightly.
You slide the vibrator up and down the length of my foot until my insistent struggles begin to bore you, then search for a new haunting ground. The back of my knee proves particularly ticklish, so you linger there for a time before jumping to my other leg to repeat the torment.
When my legs cease to hold your attention, you walk around to my front. Staring upward, I still can't see your hands, so I jerk in surprise as vibrations travel up from the fishing sinkers and through my tortured nipples. I wince and squint at the ceiling, wondering why I ever chose this for myself. But I know why, and so will anyone watching this footage. My pussy must be positively gleaming by now with the rope rubbing and spreading my juices around my nether lips as I struggle.
"Now then," you say, picking up another hank of rope. "Let's get that long hair of yours neatly out of the way, shall we?"
To be continued...
Links to all of my stories can be found here in the Story Catalog: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?f=46&t=6023
Him
It takes only seconds to trap each bright-red pigtail in the rope and lay the hank on your back, just above your bottom. The next step takes a little longer.
The ball on the end of the stainless-steel anal hook measures a full inch in diameter. Even with lubrication, it takes considerable time to work the ball past the rope and through your tightly clenched sphincter. You groan as the intruder finally pops into place. You groan even more loudly when I haul hard on the rope, loop it through the hook’s eye and knot it off firmly.
“How about that?” I muse. “Now you’re tied up ‘hook, line and sinkers.’”
I press the vibrator hard onto the crotch rope, as close to your dripping sex as the bamboo allows, and flip the switch to “high.”
Her
I am in heaven... and yet, I never knew heaven would be so uncomfortable.
The steel hook claims its place in my ass as gravity tries to tilt my head forwards, fighting the strict posture collar to no avail. I can only imagine how evocative I must look to an outside observer - but thanks to the video now I won't have to.
My buxom breasts heave with every raucous, gargling breath; my fingers wriggle and my toes curl as the itchy coconut rope chafes me to the edge of a tantalizing climax.
I've never needed to cum so much as I do now. Every fiber of my being screams out for respite -- and I know the resultant release of endorphins from such an intense orgasm would grant that respite, if only momentarily. But oh, what a moment it would be.
I think I'm supposed to exercise restraint -- even more restraint than what I'm currently subject to -- and hold back the tide of arousal until your explicit permission... But if you keep this up for a moment longer that ship will sail irrespective of my seafaring capabilities.
I try to express this through the pool of saliva in my gagged mouth, moaning insistently as if purging myself of culpability for the violent throes that will follow.
You slap my ass and rub the rumbling vibrator up and down the crotch rope, observing my body's cues with rapt attention.
Him
She's in la-la land. Do you want to be benevolent, merciful and all that rot, or do you want to make life even more miserable for her?
I choose the former. I work the head of the Hitachi as close to your joy button as possible, and reach under you with my other hand and grab the lead sinkers.
"Cum for me, Sweet Girl," I whisper into your ear as I switch the vibrator to its highest setting and yank hard on the clover clamps.
Her
Screaming in harmonious pain and pleasure, I oblige.
The clover clamps resist your tug with one final vengeful bite before falling away with your hand. As blood rushes back into my nipples the other end of my torso succumbs to your ministrations. My chest floods with searing pain as a screaming climax ravages the length of my body. I thrash and writhe in ways that previously seemed impossible in such restrictive bondage, and through it all you hold the powerful Hitachi against the center of that pleasure, one hand gripping my thigh for stability.
All other sensations are forgotten as wave after wave of glorious pleasure flows through me. I feel like a passenger in my own flesh -- one who is being treated to the ride of a lifetime.
My pussy swiftly grows in sensitivity until the continued onslaught of vibrations become unbearable. I renew my struggles, the reality of the bondage returning in full force now that the peak moment of bliss has passed. Still you press the device against my crotch, controlling the ebb of my orgasm, eliciting yet more waves of torturous pleasure from my twitching flesh.
I get the impression that even you haven't decided yet how much longer you'll continue to make my body sing for you -- you're just having too much fun watching my struggles. Part of me wants to curl up in a corner and deny you the satisfaction, but that part is all bound up with the rest of me, swaying helplessly in the middle of the room.
Head back, mouth drooling, eyes unfocused, it's all I can do to cling to consciousness as I am -- literally and figuratively -- bound to your whim.
To be continued...
It takes only seconds to trap each bright-red pigtail in the rope and lay the hank on your back, just above your bottom. The next step takes a little longer.
The ball on the end of the stainless-steel anal hook measures a full inch in diameter. Even with lubrication, it takes considerable time to work the ball past the rope and through your tightly clenched sphincter. You groan as the intruder finally pops into place. You groan even more loudly when I haul hard on the rope, loop it through the hook’s eye and knot it off firmly.
“How about that?” I muse. “Now you’re tied up ‘hook, line and sinkers.’”
I press the vibrator hard onto the crotch rope, as close to your dripping sex as the bamboo allows, and flip the switch to “high.”
Her
I am in heaven... and yet, I never knew heaven would be so uncomfortable.
The steel hook claims its place in my ass as gravity tries to tilt my head forwards, fighting the strict posture collar to no avail. I can only imagine how evocative I must look to an outside observer - but thanks to the video now I won't have to.
My buxom breasts heave with every raucous, gargling breath; my fingers wriggle and my toes curl as the itchy coconut rope chafes me to the edge of a tantalizing climax.
I've never needed to cum so much as I do now. Every fiber of my being screams out for respite -- and I know the resultant release of endorphins from such an intense orgasm would grant that respite, if only momentarily. But oh, what a moment it would be.
I think I'm supposed to exercise restraint -- even more restraint than what I'm currently subject to -- and hold back the tide of arousal until your explicit permission... But if you keep this up for a moment longer that ship will sail irrespective of my seafaring capabilities.
I try to express this through the pool of saliva in my gagged mouth, moaning insistently as if purging myself of culpability for the violent throes that will follow.
You slap my ass and rub the rumbling vibrator up and down the crotch rope, observing my body's cues with rapt attention.
Him
She's in la-la land. Do you want to be benevolent, merciful and all that rot, or do you want to make life even more miserable for her?
I choose the former. I work the head of the Hitachi as close to your joy button as possible, and reach under you with my other hand and grab the lead sinkers.
"Cum for me, Sweet Girl," I whisper into your ear as I switch the vibrator to its highest setting and yank hard on the clover clamps.
Her
Screaming in harmonious pain and pleasure, I oblige.
The clover clamps resist your tug with one final vengeful bite before falling away with your hand. As blood rushes back into my nipples the other end of my torso succumbs to your ministrations. My chest floods with searing pain as a screaming climax ravages the length of my body. I thrash and writhe in ways that previously seemed impossible in such restrictive bondage, and through it all you hold the powerful Hitachi against the center of that pleasure, one hand gripping my thigh for stability.
All other sensations are forgotten as wave after wave of glorious pleasure flows through me. I feel like a passenger in my own flesh -- one who is being treated to the ride of a lifetime.
My pussy swiftly grows in sensitivity until the continued onslaught of vibrations become unbearable. I renew my struggles, the reality of the bondage returning in full force now that the peak moment of bliss has passed. Still you press the device against my crotch, controlling the ebb of my orgasm, eliciting yet more waves of torturous pleasure from my twitching flesh.
I get the impression that even you haven't decided yet how much longer you'll continue to make my body sing for you -- you're just having too much fun watching my struggles. Part of me wants to curl up in a corner and deny you the satisfaction, but that part is all bound up with the rest of me, swaying helplessly in the middle of the room.
Head back, mouth drooling, eyes unfocused, it's all I can do to cling to consciousness as I am -- literally and figuratively -- bound to your whim.
To be continued...
Last edited by OldTUGger 3 years ago, edited 1 time in total.
Links to all of my stories can be found here in the Story Catalog: https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?f=46&t=6023