This is an odd story. I wrote it a long time ago. I'm weird and I've got a lot of weird fetishes. I'm a tickler at heart, and I'm a big fan of being on top, but over the years I've sort of drifted into this sub territory. There's not much tickling here, it's only sort of mentioned, but this forum is where I like to be and I thought I'd share it here. I apologize if that's not cool. Please enjoy my weird story. It's full of grammatical errors and typos and the tense sort of jumps around, but it's what I've got.
Update: I think I've almost got the perspective down to first person. The tenses are still ridiculous, though, so bear with me.
You Just Have To Take It
It's been a long week, and every night I've been teasing you to the edge before sex. I've been in an extremely dominant mood, tying you up and teasing your pussy for a loooong time, making you squirm and beg before I finally satisfy you; when you've had your orgasm, each night, I lay down across your ankles and tickle your tied feet until you're too breathless to laugh anymore. As much as you love and hate and love to hate it, eventually, you feel like a change.
One day we're both off and I'm feeling frisky. I lure you into the bedroom, and we have hot, consentual, straight-up sex. We go to take a shower and during it I bend you over and take your back door, too. When we're clean and back in bed, we cuddle lovingly for a while, and then you begin to feel excited again. Just as you think we're about to have sex again, out come the ropes. Eyes fixed on my erection, bobbing about as I tie you up, you beg me for one more orgasm. Instead, I tickle you for hours, on and off. The only breaks you get from the tickling you spend with a weak vibrator between your legs, watching me jack off to the sound of you begging and the sight of you trying in vain to break free.
Rather than just tell me outright that my tickling is getting out of hand, since you're still enjoying yourself, you decide to teach me a lesson. The next night we're off, you make sure I take some sleeping pills before bed. While I'm deep asleep, you carefully move me onto my side, cuffing my hands behind my back and letting my body's weight pin my trapped arms, tying my ankles together to the base of the bed so I can't move anything but my head. You cut my boxers off with a pair of scissors; they're no special pair, nothing I can't replace for a few bucks. Finally, set up your laptop and wait for me to wake up.
When I come to, it doesn't take long before I realize the situation I'm in. You look up and wish me good morning, acting like nothing's unusual, laying alongside me in the pose. I give you a smile and wiggle a bit, and you can see that I'm already getting excited. I ask you what you have planned, but this time you don't say anything. Instead, you hold up the ball gag to let me know what's in store.
I smile and laugh nervously, then tell you I'm not really in the mood for this right now. Instead, I propose, we should have some breakfast and then maybe a little morning sex, get ready for the day. Before I can complain any more, though, you put the gag in my mouth and tell me that I am ready for the day. You briefly explain that I've been going a bit overboard with the tickling and teasing lately; you've set aside this day off to teach me a lesson in moderation.
I know what you're planning and give you a warning look; after the first time we did this (also the last), you made me eat my words about wanting it. It was too frustrating, too intense, and I told you that even if I did agree to it in the future it wouldn't be for nearly as long and that you needed to be much more lenient. A smug smile on your face, you inform me that it won't be as bad or as long as last time. Instead, it'll be much worse, for much longer. You lean over and kiss me on the cheek as I start to complain, then whisper some rules into my ear.
First, I am to keep as quiet as possible and just take my punishment. You will keep track of every sound I make, imposing increasing cumulative penalties if I make too much noise. Secondly, you state that I have to keep any and every promise I make, even if you're forcing me to make it. By now I know that our sexual agreements work on an unquestionable honor system; as much as it kills me, I have to agree. Third, I have to agree to consider this just deserts; absolutely no retribution.
Finally, you tell me that there's one easy way out: climax. If I can somehow manage to cum, at any point, you'll let me go. Not only that, but you'll agree to take as much revenge on you as I want, for the rest of the day. The other side of the condition, though, is that if I can't climax before you let me go, I'm not allowed to touch your feet, tie you, tickle you, or tease you for a week, unless you specifically ask me to. For this entire week, as well, I will not be allowed to orgasm any time without your direct prior approval.
I know that you're serious, and I give you a final look telling you "Not today! Not this, not right now!" Your smile is heartbreakingly cruel and smug, and it fills me with fury and a desire to break out. I can't help but squirm a bit, testing the strength of the bonds holding my arms, desperate not to suffer a repeat of the last time I spent on the bottom. By now you've learned how to keep me perfectly immobile, though; it's pretty clear that in my position I won't be escaping on my own.
As much as the situation and your smugness is driving me crazy, I can't help but become excited. By now I'm at full mast, my body longing for a torture I already know I don't want. Teasingly, you tell me that you wouldn't do it if I wasn't enjoying it, but - giving a light, teasing stroke up the underside of my shaft - it appears I clearly am. I try to say "Oh come on!" through the gag, managing to make some sad whining noise in it's place. You hold up a finger and mark the noise down on a notepad you've got setup nearby, then roll onto your side and sit up.
First, you tell me, you've got some things to finish up online. Aside from checking your tumblers and blogs, you also have a manga you've just started that you find very interesting. Pilling up some pillows next to my thighs, you pick up your laptop and lay down alongside me. I let out a faint, involuntary whine (which you record, to my irritation) as you kick your feet up onto my chest. Crossed at the ankle, sloses slowly, teasing wiggling, your feet completely fill my sight. I can feel my hard-on throb with desire at the sight.
It's impossible for me to track time as you keep me trapped there, helplessly staring at your soft, wiggling soles with unrestrained lust as you go about your business. Occasionally you laugh or make some comment, clearly absorbed with whatever you're doing online. Sometimes your feet change position; they uncross at the ankles and you bend your knees, resting your soles flat on my chest and teasing me with your wiggling toes, or they rest side by side, heels together, arches stretched forward in that high-heel position you know I love, toes wiggling. Now and then I can't help but make some sort of sound; each and every time, though, I see you stop to mark it down.
I can't tell how long as passed when finally you seem to notice me again, feet wiggling a final time. You tell me that it's already been over an hour, and that you're just checking to see that I'm okay. Glancing over at my cock, you give it a few quick, light, teasing taps up and down it's length with your fingertips. Again I involuntarily moan, and you jot another line down on the pushment sheet. Feet wiggling, a smile of control that makes me want to scream on your lips, fingers tapping slowly up and down the length of my aching cock, you ask me if I'm ready to make a deal. Of course, I nod.
You offer me a choice: you'll wrap up what you're doing on the internet and move on to something else in just an hour. If I'd like, though, you'll give me a five minute window of time. During this time, the only rule is that you promise not to touch my penis at all. If I can calm down before the five minutes are up, you'll stop looking at the internet right away. On the flip side, if I agree and fail, you'll keep reading this manga until you're finished with it; you're not sure how long it'll take, but it'll definitely be more than two hours.
The choice is bad on both ends, and you keep teasing my cock while I consider it to make things even harder. Finally, I nod. I've felt myself getting nearly soft a couple times, just from gravity; I'm fairly confident that with some concentration I can go soft in five minutes. Smiling triumphantly in advance, you glance down at the laptop and open the clock window. Just as the minute turns, in a sing-song voice, you tell me to begin.
Immediately, I close my eyes and try to focus on something else. I do my best to forget the position that I'm in, how infuriatingly helpless I am, how much you're driving me crazy and how annoying my body's natural response to that is. Little by little, I can feel the blood start to drain, my member slowly losing it's stiffness bit by tiny bit. I can hear you teasing me, but I've blocked it out. I'm certain that in just another minute, I'll be soft.
Then, you do something that I hate myself for not thinking of. I can feel your feet press flat against my chest, feel the bed shake as you slide your butt forward just a bit alongside me. A moment later those soft, irresistable soles slide over my chest, lift up for a moment and settle on my face. My eyes spring open, vision blocked by the warm, fleshy balls of your feet. I try to shake my head, but the feet follow my face effortlessly. I moan a string of protests, and you inform me that each one will count as it's out sound.
The effect on my cock is instant. I'm hard all over again, squirming in desperate horniness as you lovingly, teasingly stroke your soft soles up and down my face. Staying silent, I begin to twist and turn on the bed, doing anything I can to pull my face away from your feet. Giggling, you flawlessly match my movements, keeping your feet pressed to me no matter how I struggle. I'm now blushing, overwhelmed with frustration and irritation at being played, knowing that you made me agree to something that you never intended to give me a chance of winning. Before I know it I hear your voice again, informing me that time is up.
Though there's absolutely no need to use your hands, you do so anyway, taking hold of my obviously erect cock and giving it a teasing, soft squeeze. Sighing, you shrug your shoulders and tell me not to worry, that you'll do your best to finish the manga as fast as you can. It takes all my willpower to keep quiet as you go back to your laptop, wiggling your feet playfully against my face. I make a tiny sound to get your attention, squirming forward just a bit and then back, reminding you to remove your feet before you go back to your web-browsing.
You do, but just for a moment, smiling down at me with a look as falsely innocent as it is smug and domineering. After marking off another sound in my punishment box, you tell me that you're more comfortable like this, so I'll just have to deal with it for the rest of the time. Also, you go on to inform me, from now on I'm not allowed to struggle without permission either. Each struggle will be counted as a sound. The sudden and unreasonable added rule turns my face red, and I barely manage to repress a grunt of protest, fixing you with eyes that would have been sharp and threatening if they weren't so obviously filled with lust and need. Holding up one hand and giving me a teasing four-finger wave, you place your feet snuggly back against my face and begin reading.
What followed was beyond my ability to imagine. Though I'd intimated fantasies of just such a scenario in the past, I'm utterly unprepared for the cruel reality of such a situation. Your feet never stopped moving for very long; at any given time your soles were flexing or your toes wiggling or your ankle twitching the foot up and down, rhythmically in place. Sometimes you'd resume crossing your ankles, the outter edges of your feet resting along my face, your wiggling toes occasionally brushing over my cheekbones. Other times, you'd alternate between feet, bending one back just a bit at the ankle and then relaxing it, patting one side of my face with your sole, then the other, in rapid procession.
Worst and most maddeningly exciting of all, though, was feeling you rub them slowly up and down in place. The feeling of your soft skin against my helpless face was driving me wild, but any little bit of friction just compounded it. Every time that I could feel my hard-on losing it's edge, weakening slightly from overuse, you'd begin gently, softly, teasingly moving your feet up and down my face, the skin of your soles and arches and pads and toes delicately, lightly brushing the over my skin and whipping me into a frenzy. Feeling the feet I normally love so much utterly dominate and control me, hating them as much as I loved them, was driving me out of my mind.
When you're done, you tease my face with a quick rub and flex one final time before removing your feet. Looking down at me, that same playful and cruel look on your face, you inform me that I should be thankful that you're such a fast reader; it only took you two hours and ten minutes to finish your series. I glare at you, torn between keeping quiet or risking further punishment to let you know just how insufferable you're being. Your look, though, tells me that you know exactly how insufferable you're being, and that you'll only be getting worse.
Finally, your attention shifts to my cock. You begin to toy with the tip, which has a film of precum on it now, rolling the rubbery head between your fingertips slowly. The sensation is pure torture at this point, filling me with a pleasure that only increases my desire for more. You switch to simply rubbing that "sweet spot" right at the bottom of my tip, where the soft and fleshy skin of the shaft meets the tight and rubbery head. One teasing, slow stroke of your thumb by one, you cause my frustration to build up beyond imagining. I can't help but wiggle and moan a little bit as you unyieldingly caress that most terrible achiles heel, your eyes darting back and forth from my desperate face to the red member between your fingers.
When you finally stop, fixing your sultry and controlling look on me as you lick your fingertips, you say that I'm making you horny. You mark down the squirming and moaning I just did, then give that look that tells me you're ready. I know that you're definitely not going to let me off the hook yet, but think that maybe you'll be feeling more amicable after you've cum yourself. Even as you're busy driving me crazy, I can see your own need. The hope that you'll relent to the desire to feel my cock as you please yourself is all I've got. When you stradle me, though I don't show it, that hope swells up.
You don't slide yourself down onto my waiting and very, very eager cock, though. Giving me a coy smile, you slide your lips over the tip several times, finally sitting in place over my penis. My shaft is pressed against my pelvis, tip pointed up towards me, the bottom pressed between your wet, slick lips. Slowly, you begin to grind. Eyes closing, sweet and seductive little moans of pleasure escaping from your intollerably sexy, full, soft lips, you rock back and forth, rubbing your sex up and down just the shaft of my member.
Again, it takes everything I have and then some to keep from protesting. For minutes you continue this slow, teasing grind, the friction taking me closer bit by tiny, tiny bit, the lack of stimulation to my head making it difficult and frustrating. When you stop, there's a dangerous look in your half-lidded eyes. You lift yourself off of my crotch and crawl over me, stopping with your breasts hanging down and pressing against my chest, your face right infront of mine.
Once again, you give me a choice. You can sit on my chest and get yourself off with your fingers while I watch, or I can use my mouth to get you off. If I agree to the latter, there are two rules: I can't say a single word the entire time, for one. If I do, the deal is off and you'll punish me severely. Secondly, I can't stop, no matter what, until you say. Stopping early will result in additional punishment as well.
You do note, though, that if I do a really good job of satisfying you, you'll give me a reward. The thought of eating you out right now makes me even harder, as much as I hate that I don't have a choice. I know that watching you finger yourself on my chest will be just as bad; even worse, I know that you'll have a free hand in range to torment me the whole while. For the second time, backed into your trap, I nod.
When you remove the gag, you immediately place a finger against my lips to remind me that silence is one of the conditions. I nod, fighting back the urge to threaten and promise and do whatever it takes to make you stop this before it goes any further, not wanting to lose my one chance so soon. From experience, I know I've got a much better chance of convincing you /after/ you've climaxed; furthermore, speaking right now will earn me that gag back too fast to do any good.
Smiling down and crawling even further up by body, I can feel your knees press into the pillow on either side of my head, see your dripping sex lifted up right above me. You dig your feet in beneath my shoulders and lower yourself down. Soon, my head is trapped between your hot, soft, silky thighs. My face is pinned just below your sex, so close I can feel the moisture and heat. Asking me if I'm ready, glancing down between your legs at me with a look of triumph that raises my blood pressure to dangerous levels, you grind your pussy down against my trapped face.
For the next ten minutes, there's absolutely nothing I can do but use my tongue and lips to get you off, staring up at the look of ecstacy on your face as I do, listening to you moan as you take your pleasure with me. Worst of all, your pussy is pressed so tightly to my lips that it forms a complete seal, as if glued to my face. Every breath I take is through my nose, pressed into your muff, filling my world with the scent of your wet sex. Just as before, though the entire activity offers me no pleasure, some twisted instinct in my body grows unbearable excited by my helplessness. Being forced to get you off like this is driving me mad with two kinds of frustration - regular and sexual - at the same time.
After what seems like a lifetime, I can feel your body tense up, hear you moan and taste a sudden surge of your juices in my mouth. You pant for a little bit and I give my tongue a break, trying to close my mouth. With you sitting on me it's impossible; the best I can do is rest my parted lips against those of your sex, letting each drop of residual girl cum flow unobstructed onto my tongue. I wait patiently for you to move, eyes fixed on your face. When you finally meet them, there's a cruel look, and you wiggle the slightest bit in place.
Rather then lift yourself up, you twist around and reach back over my torso. I can feel your hand grab my cock, give a low, angry and frustrated moan into your pussy as you begin to play with it again. Laughing, you turn back forward to face me and waggle your finger, telling me that that sound will cost me double. Restraining myself, I do my best to remain patient. As soon as you move, before the post-orgasmic glow fades, I can explain to you that this really isn't the time. Doing something like this without preparation doesn't work; this is crazy, it's wrong. Unfortunately, you don't move.
The look in your eye tells me that I'm not going to like what you say next; true to my guess, I don't. You ask me if I heard you say "stop". Again, I let out a long and irate moan, seeing where you're going with this. I try to shake my head no, but your thighs hold me fast. Going on, you remind me that the deal was that I would absolutely not stop until you told me too, no matter what; assuming that I only had to bring you to one orgasm was stupid. Smiling with that dreaded look of false innocence, though, you inform me that you're willing to give me one more chance.
If I start again and keep going, no matter what, until I hear you say stop, you'll overlook this one mistake. If I don't, though, I'll receive the punishment for breaking our deal. There is no answer for me to give but one, so I close my eyes and open my tired jaw. Once again I resume sucking at the soft, slick sex irremovably trapped over my mouth, sucking and lapping and doing everything I can to get you that second orgasm, the third; I work feverishly, feeling a renewed surge of humiliated frustration as I do. Immediately you resume moaning, hips gyrating to grind my face, your finger sliding down past my nose to join in, stroking yourself as I continue to lavish attention upon the more tender parts of your pussy.
Soon you have your second orgasm, but there is no command given to stop. My tongue and jaw are both exhausted, and it takes everything I can to keep going. I can't smell or taste anything but your pussy; it almost seems impossible to imagine anything else. Finally, your body bucks again and your knees go weak; at last satisfied, you roll off to the side and give me the first breath of fresh air I've had in twenty minutes.
For a while you bask in that post orgasmic glow, breathing heavily, eyes closed. I keep my head facing you, just waiting for your eyes to open, waiting for that look of gentle satisfaction that would give me my chance. When your eyes finally open, it's there; I can see in them the beaming, warm look of love you normall give me after sex. I push aside my feelings and give you a loving smile in return.
In a soft, calm, seductive voice, I tell you how much I need you right now, swear that I've learned my lesson. You continue catching your breath, not stopping me, and I continue on, telling you how amazing you are at getting me excited, begging you relief. As you listen, giving no response with either words or expression, I start to grow even more desperate. I promise that I'll let you finish this some other day, no matter how much I don't want to, if you'll let me go today.
After another brief pause, you ask me if I really, really promise, and if I'd make it three times. I nod and smile and swear that I do, as much as agreeing to three more sessions of this madness to end one sucked. I figure, at least, that if I'm prepared and it's done with my consent, it should be much, much more bearable. You warn me that you won't go any easier on me those times, but I agree anyway. Right here, right now, it had to end.
Sitting straight, you pick the gag back up, relishing the look of confusion on my face. Before I can ask you what you're doing, the ball has been shoved back in place. While I whine in protest, you pick up the punishment sheet and began drawing way, way too many hash lines on it, jotting down more than twenty from that brief conversation alone.
Smiling sweetly, you pat me on the cheek and reassure me that you will let me go today, just as you promised; on my end of the bargain, like it or not, I have to accept this very treatment another day. My head reels with the foul play, and I give you a look halfway between threatening and begging. You remind me that I promised and that you'd be extremely disappointed in me if I went back on the deal, however crooked it was. As much as the knowledge that I'd stupidly quadrupled my torment filled me with humiliation and rage, there was know way I'd risk disappointing you. Our sexual promises were iron-clad; once again, you'd trapped me.
Changing the topic, you inform me that since I didn't stop until you'd gotten off, you were going to give me a reward. I knew better than to get too hopeful, but you assured me that I'd be happy when I heard it. Crawling over to the bed's side and standing up on the floor, you inform me that by winning the last challenge I'd earned a break. You'd go take a shower, eat some breakfast, maybe see what was on TV. In the meantime, I could rest up.
For the first time all morning, I breath a sigh of genuine relief. Even staring at your irresistable naked body, I can feel my aching hard-on cool down just a bit as a result. You grab your robe, smiling sweetly and waving goodbye as you open the door. Suddenly, though, a look of concern crosses your face. You walk back over to your nightstand and find something, circling back around to stand next to the side of the bed where I'm tied, smiling down at me. Something is hidden behind your back, and a nervous feeling builds up inside my chest.
You grab the sheets and throw them over my face; for all intents and purposes, I'm blinded. A moment later, though, you make your intent known. I can feel you touching my slowly limping member, can feel something hard and smooth and just a bit cold pressed again the underside of my head, right over that most unbearable sweet spot, where every stimulation created a deeper and deeper longing for more, egged me on and drew precum out while not ever getting me close to orgasm. I let out a loud and irritated noise; this was bullshit and we both knew it.
I can feel a broad, loose band tighten around my cock, pinning the vibrator in place against that sweet spot. You pull the sheets aside just a few seconds after finishing the cruel rig, punishment sheet already in hand. In a mockingly concerned tone of voice, you warn me that I was getting close to the "Grand Prize" of the punishment page, and really needed to be more careful if I wanted to avoid it. Though I don't like the sounds of it, I push that aside and fix you with an accusing glare, telling you that you're going too far. You smile and shake your head.
After tutting me a few times, you explain that the break is my reward for using my mouth so well, but the vibrator was my punishment for breaking our deal and speaking at the end, and that she'd already warned me about that. I give you one final pleading look as you turn it on, a low and weak vibration instantly making me rock hard all over again. A look of agoningly irritating dominance in your eyes and in a cruelly casually tone of voice, you explain that this is the very vibrator that I've made you edge with so many times, strong enough to keep exciting you but too weak to finish the job. Reassuring me that the battery will probably wear off before my break is over, jotting a line on the pad as I give one final, angry moan, you leave the room.
Free of the punishment pad, I begin to squirm like crazy; somehow, no matter what, I've got to break out. Whatever's gotten into you, it's too much. As exciteing as whole sub thing is, I hate it. I can't stand it, I derive absolutely no pleasure from it. Being bound and teased and completely at your mercy is driving me out of my mind in a hurry, and I don't enjoy it one tiny bit. Unfortunately, though, my body does. A lot. Even now, without you in the room to make it worse, the combination of that loathesome, weak, teasing vibrator and my own helplessness keep me excited while I fight against my minds and my libido for freedom from your little "Sunday Morning Surprise".
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The battery on the vibrator had begun to die down; how long it'd been I can't say, but long enough that my erection finally, slowly, begins to die down. My own struggling had ended long before; you've learned how to get the bonds on securely, and I've got no leverage. I'm in no shape for prolonged exhertion, even with the stakes as high as they are. Resigned to languish in that irritating, fading forced pleasure, I did my best to rest and keep myself distracted. So hard was I focusing on not thinking about the vibrator that I didn't even notice when you came in immediately.
You look refreshed as you inform me that it's been a couple of hours; by now, it's well past noon. Taking off your bathrobe and sitting back down on the side of the bed, you ask me if I had a nice rest. My eyes scream "what do you think", and you smile and say that you're glad I did, knowing full well that I didn't A moment later your attention turns to my cock, hanging at half mast. You remove the vibratrator and begin to play with it.
By now, mercifully, my cock just can't go up anymore. My biology is telling me that I need to cool it on the erection. Nonetheless, you diligently toy with it for several more minutes, keeping it stimulated to the very end, when it lays flacid and shrunken in your hand. Letting go and turning your attention to me, assuming that after all this time my cock needs some rest, you ask me what I'd like to do next.
My eyes tell you that I'd like to be let go next, but you pretend not to see it. Instead, you tell me that waking up so early to prepare my little surprise, then waited up; combined with all those orgasms I brought you to earlier, you really feel like you could use a nap. I shake my head and beg once again; I know what you're planning and I can't stand the idea. In response, you simply jot down two more hashmarks, making a comment about how there were only eight left to go until I "really got it". Freezing up, I resolved to do my best not to "get it", but at the same time kept my pleading gaze on you. Enough was enough.
Grabbing and fluffing up a pillow, you place it down next to mine, saddling up next to me. You then ask if I've learned my lesson yet, if I promise to not go so overboard with all the teasing and tickling. I remain still for a moment, afraid of earning another mark, when you laugh and give me permission to answer; I nod assent instantly. Smiling, you place a few soft kisses on my cheek and neck, re-stating that I'd better not forget when this was all over. Giving me an uneccessary warning that I'd better not wake you up, you siddle up to me and wrap your arms around me, going to sleep.
The nature of the embrace, though, was incredibly annoying in it's own right, and you knew it. Your chest was too high; your arms wrapped around my shoulders, burrying my face in your chest. Turned on my side, the lower boob was pressed into my face, it's soft and silky-smooth form conforming to almost every curve, nipple centered right on my nose. I could breathe, but it was not easy; there was almost not a single square inch of my face that did not have warm, crazy-soft boob pressed to it. The upper boob rested heavily on my cheek, a soft and constant weight.
Sighing sleepily, you tell me how good it feels to rest your boobs on me. You ask if I'll promise to let you rest them on me any time you want, no matter what, and I know that I have to agree. Giving a cute and satisfied sound, you wish me goodnight once again. Your upper leg lifts, stretching across mine, your shin touching my currently limp member. Comfortably resting your huge, heavy breasts on my head, you close your eyes and begin to breathe softly. I didn't really believe you would, but somehow, you fall asleep...all without letting go even a bit.
For nearly fifteen minutes I squirmed the tiniest bit, trying to free my head from your soft and massive chest. It was getting hot, and your breasts we sweating; soon they were slick and sticky, though your recent shower left them smelling an inoffensive salty, fleshy smell. Eventually, I managed to free my face up a tiny bit without waking you. Unfortunately, this only made things worst. My face was pressed against your chest, nose right to your sternum, trapped in your cleavage. Your breasts held my face even more completely now, covering every last square inch from my forehead to my chin. They were becoming much too hot, much too fast...but nothing I could do would remove them.
I wondered if you knew how uncomfortable you'd be making me before you went to sleep, wondered if this wasn't some sort of additional revenge for my constant teasing about your breast size. Though I mocked them, I did love your breasts; in particular, I love playing with them, loved to tease and torment their hyper-soft and pliable nipples. I didn't enjoy being trapped inside of them; or rather, I didn't want to, but somehow couldn't stop myself from feeling slightly excited about it. Being trapped in general just got me off against my will, but being trapped against your sweating, hot, smothering breasts was sending electric shocks between my legs.
I suppressed a groan of misserable frustration as I remembered you teasing me about exactly this, threatening to tie me up and rest your boobs on me, and that there'd be nothing I could do. Hearing that voice in my head, seeing that look in my mind's eye, it all compounded the frustration worse and worse. In reality, hearing you threaten to dom me always woke up a sort of spiteful, counter-dominance. I hated and loved and hated and loved the spark of arrousal that those comments would trigger, but felt an accompanying and very real annoyance at them. At those times, the thought of you just doing what you want to me, talking about teasing me or "making" me do anything, I'd just make some comment about not letting you and imagine myself on top in my mind. Right now, I possessed no imagination strong enough to reverse our roles. You were, in fact, resting your boobs on me as much as you wanted and I was, in fact, unable to stop you.
Mercifully, stewing in irritation and excitement mired together in such a potent mix that I couldn't tell where one stopped and the other began, I also fell asleep. I didn't know how long it was for, though; it only felt a minute. It was a deep, dreamless, rejuvinative sleep, the combination of a long morning's excitement and the fading aftereffects of the sleeping pills I had taken late the night before. When I did wake up, whatever I had dreamt, I was already hard.
You'd noticed, in fact, because you had woken up at some point before me. I was once more on my back, my own weight pinning my tied arms. Kneeling at my side, fingers toying with my erection, you noticed me stir and turned to face me, wishing me goodmorning once again. By the look of the windows, though, it was late afternoon or early evening. Pre-empting me, you inform me that it was a bit past four now. Giving my cock a final, teasing flick, you begin untying my legs.
Though I feel a momentary surge of hope, you explain that this is just a quick break. I bite down on the gag as you explain that you're going to untie me, let me go use the bathroom and grab something to eat, stretch out for just a little bit. An extremely stern, serious look in your eye, tone of voice sharp and level, you remind me that you'll be extremely angry with me for a long, long time if I did something as cheap as used this chance to escape. I nod with understanding. A moment later you finish releasing my legs and then, nudging me to roll on my side, my arms.
I take the opportunity to stretch out, letting the blood return to my body and standing up for the first time that day. While I take out my own gag, you explain that I'm still not allowed to speak without permission. Though my look shows how annoyed I am with the restriction, I place the gag down on the nightstand without complaint and walk out to the bathroom. As I'm about to leave, that same no-nonsense look of warning on your face, you also remind me that since this is a time out, I'm not allowed to touch myself. I had thought of that, in fact, and had been hoping you'd forget and give me a legal way out. Cursing silently at the catch, I left you in the room.
Never in a million years would I dream to violate the sanctity of our sex games, but the temptation to do so was maddening. I relieved myself, then hopped into the shower. As much as I wanted to milk it, my sense of obligation to you made me hurry it up, all the while that same internal war waging itself. The thought of letting you tie me back up again now that I'd been let go, no matter what obligation I had to do so, was complete madness. I'd had enough - in fact, I'd had much, much, much /more/ than enough - of being dommed.
The combination of medications and sexual teasing had made me forget my appetite; a bowl of cereal was enough to settle me for now. Taking a deep breath, walking down the hall naked, I headed back to our room. My mind raced with every step, plans and schemes working through my head. It was a short, quick walk, but by the time I'd reached the end I'd resolved on a course of action.
"No," you told me, that serious look back on your face, at the very moment I walked through the door. I stared in confusion for a moment, looking your naked body up and down. Your arms were crossed, chest resting gloriously atop the linked forearms, hips cocked just slightly. Before I could ask what you meant, you told me that whatever deal I'd thought up, the answer would be "No," and pointed down at the bed. Instead, I walked up to you, took you by the shoulders, and kissed you.
It was a long, passionate kiss, and you eventually returned my embrace. When our lips parted our eyes opened and met, the look of soft and caring love that I had so longed for in your eyes. I pressed against you, pushed my cock in between your legs. You were already growing wet, and I capitlized on this, grinding and lubricating myself somewhat. Every time you opened your mouth to talk, I met it with my own lips. Holding you close, chest to chest and sex to sex, I fell towards the bed. Rolling onto my back, lowering my hands to your hips, I prepared to finish the night on a good note with some honest, clean, sex. I couldn't remember ever wanting kink-free, simple, blissful, basic penis-in-vagina sex so badly in my life.
Inches from victory, though, my "sweep you off your feet" plan backfired. Though blushing and looking as if you really wanted it, you fixed me with that stern and reproachful look again. Smiling nervously, I asked "Please, love?" Picking up your pad, you responded by drawing another line in it. Shoulders falling, I knew that you'd made up your mind. It was clear that you wanted sex, extremely so. All the same, I couldn't know how strong your determination was. You'd even deny yourself, for now, to see this through.
My mind screaming at me the whole while, I slowly tood back up and turned my back to you. You were quick and profession as you re-tied my wrists, the binds practiced and tight but not chafing. I sat down on the side of the bed and lifted my legs onto it, laying back down as I'd woken that morning, trapped in bondage. It didn't take you but a few seconds to re-cuff my ankles and tie the middle piece to a rope that was fixed to the boxspring, keeping me stretched out. By then, my now-recovered cock had found it's way back to half-erect.
Laying down alongside me, toying with my cock a bit, you informed me that if I was in the last stretch. I had four hash marks to go until the big punishment, and if I played my cards right, you said, I'd be free and fucking you by eight. Swallow, taking in a deep breath, and strangely re-invigorated, I nodded my aggrement. Smiling sweetly, rewarding me with one last, loving kiss, you placed the gag back into my mouth. What I hoped would be the final few hours began.
It seemed, though, that I'd been careless in taking things so easy just because the end was in sight. The moment the gag was in and my bondage once again complete, that smug look of absolute dominance was back. I managed not to struggle or make any sound, but a sudden wave of furious regret and embarassment washed over me. As much of a show of being upset with me as you might have put on, a few good sexings and some sweet loving later and everything would have been fine. While I by no means relished the idea of violating one of our sacred agreements, the knowledge that I'd let myself be fooled and trapped once again hit me like a ton of bricks. As I'd expected, you told me that violating my break would cost me.
Wasting no time, you straddled me and began grinding your wet sex, ready once more for satisfaction, against my groin. It was no time before I'd risen to the challenge, my cock standing full mast and ready itself. This time, though, and to my great surprise, you did not pin it between my body and your sex nor grind it teasingly. A hand reached down to grasp it gently, and the hot, slick lips of you sex began to lower down onto it. Before I knew it, one blisfull, tight, wet, hot, and incredible thrust later, I was finally inside of you.
Lifting yourself with those strong, soft-yet-firm thighs I love so much, you began to very slowly, very delicately ride me. Each time you lifted only a few inches, settling back down slowly. The sensation was wonderful but teasing, pleasurable but inspiring in me a lust for more. Bit by bit, gyrating and grinding against me each time you took me in completely and our crotches met, you picked up the pace. Soon I'd tilted my own head back, breathing heavily through my nose and doing my very best not to make any sound in the process. Meanwhile, in teasing, two-inch thrusts, you continued to ride me.
I had no idea where you were going, but I was sure this was it. You'd promised that an orgasm would mean the end of this whole torment, and there was no way I wouldn't cum now. Though it was clear you were trying to make the sex act as unsatisfying as possible, I was just too ready, too sensitive, not to get off. Each tormentuously brief, slow thrust pushed me just a tiny bit closer. I ground back, subtly, doing everything I possibly could without overtly squirming to maximize my friction. Minute by minute ticked by, my breathing becoming heavier, the pressure of a mounting orgasm building behind my cock. I braced myself, ready for the final few pushes that would take me there, bring me exquisite relief and an end to this entire event all at once.
Your moans came first. I heard them sweet and musical, felt your inner walls tighten around my cock. Juices ran down my pole, turning my groin slick, and you slumped forward. It took me just a moment to notice, but you'd stopped riding the moment you came. Panicked, just a few thrusts from the edge, I began bucking underneath you, doing whatever I could to push myself that last, tiny bit. Your thighs tightened on either side of my hips, though, and you put your weight onto me. My pelvis was trapped beneath you, pressed down as far as it would go into the bed, unable to generate even the tiniest, most fleeting split-second of friction. Inside of you, clamped in place by tight, wet, warm muscles, throbbing with frustration and near-orgasmic pleasure, my cock slowly, slooooooowly began to fall backwards from the edge.
The look on your face was a mixture of bliss and triumphant glory. Your smile told me that you knew everything that I was going through, that in fact you had planned it that way. Sitting in place, wiggling the tiniest, most maddening little bit, you informed me that you'd been warming up while I was busy showering and eating. Feigning disappointment and pity, you then told me that if I had just gone about everything a little bit faster, she would have lasted longer and I might have cum. There were no words to describe my feelings about that.
For a long time you remained impaled on my member, catching your breath and beaming smugly down at me, occasionally giving another one of those mind-shatteringly teasing wiggles, causing the barest hint of friction and reminding me just how good the thing that was being denied to me felt. The whole while I tried to keep focused on something else, planned and dreamed of what I'd do when you let me go. Of course, I'd promised not to take retribution for this, and I'd already agreed not to go so crazy with the kinky stuff. All the same, though, there was a lot I could still get away with. I knew how to word things, how to justify and keep things in line. As much as you have learned from me and used that talent against me (more proficiently than I'd expected or liked, at that), it'd still be easy enough to turn the tables when this was all over.
At long last, I felt you lifting off of me. Slowly, agonizingly, wiggling your hips the whole way up, you rose up and slid my tight member out from inside the velvety walls that it wanted nothing more than to feel the rapid and repeated caress of. Finally, muscles clamping tight at the very end, my tortured cock was free of you. Sitting immediately back down on my stomach, smiling deviously, you rested for one final moment before getting off of me.
It seemed that one orgasm had been enough to satisfy you this time, because you immediately went for your laptop. Without thinking, I let out a groan and shook my head. Freezing, placing it down on the bed, you grabbed your pad and made two more lines. Informing me in a teasingly worried tone that I only had two more before she had "no choice" but to give me the worst punishment she'd thought up, you hop back up onto the bed and siddle up alongside me once again. It's time for more internets; early evening means people to chat with, you explain, settling into place and propping your feet up on me. This time, though, you waste no time with the light teasing of keeping them on my chest. Right away they're pressed to my face, rubbing up and down in that way you know I just can't take a few times, wiggled and scrunched and patted vigorously for over a minute.
Even moreso than last time, the torment is past unbearable. Your victory over me has long been complete; now you're running victory laps. There's absolutely nothing I can do but squirm in desperation and fume in boiling indignity at the situation. This time, though, unlike last, you do not seem so aware of my presence, do not pretend to some callous detachment from the suffering you know you're causing. One hand reaches over and takes my cock, kept perpetually hard by my irrepressible hardwired lust for feet and, infuriatingly, at being helpless. Rather than stroke it, you simply open and close your hand over it, over and over again, lifting and lowering one finger at a time. I couldn't think of anything I hated or desired as much as that feeling.
The minutes pass in a warped, stretched procession for me. I'm going out of my mind with lust, weird thoughts creeping into my head. Every now and again, after working me up for a few minutes, you remove your hand from my member and focus on whatever you're looking out or whoever you're talking to, bringing me confused feelings of mixed relief and regret. Periodically, you slide your feet down my face far enough that I can see you through your wiggling toes, a sweet and condescending smile on your face. Others, you move them around much more actively, humming a cheery tune and driving me up the wall by padding your soft soles against my face in time to the rythm.
You tell me that it's all my fault, no matter how much I joke about everything being your fault, that I just have to sit and take my punishment. Sometimes, as you rub your feet maddeningly back and forth, you tauntingly quip that I "it feels really good" and that "this is something need to get used to." The worst, though, is hearing you say "you just have to take it." Those words made me crazier than anything else. They were both a command and an observation, all the more infurating for their double-meaning and unquestionable truth. You tell me to deal with it, no matter how wildly insane it was driving me, and I...just have to take it.
Even without seeing my reaction, you know how well those taunts work. The hours pass like lifetimes for me, and I can feel myself actually crying now. By now, I'm completely gone. It's impossible for me to imagine that there was ever a time when I'd asked for this. Your feet are the most exquitely exciting and excrutiatingly vexxing thing in the entire world. With each soft, tormenting rub against my captive face they excite a primal and unreasoning lust inside of me; at the same time, they fill me with loathing, impotent, idescribable frustration. They're simultaineously heaven and hell, driving me to new heights of excitement even as they gently but inescapably pinned me down in a sticking mire of frustration and grief.
I had no idea just how close I was to my breaking point until you said those words that pushed me over it. Lowering your feet just a bit, your maddeningly fleshy, perfect toes wiggling against my cheekbones, you fix me with a look of feigned indifference and inform me that you just need to finish this last Let's Play. For another fourty minutes I reeled in the indignity and torment of unfulfilled need that you so lovingly kept me in, endured the teasingly light caress of your hand on my helpless and desperate member. I "just took" the infuriating presence of your feet on my face, restraining the raging frenzy that their constant and insufferable twitching and rubbing and flexing and wiggling was keeping me in. I knew I was at my wit's end, but it wasn't until you'd said the words that I truly broke.
"Sorry, but...I think I want to see another Let's Play. You'll /just have to take it/ until I'm done."
Every muscle in my body tensed in recoil. It was getting late; the time was easily past the originally mentioned release time of "eight o'clock". The notion that you planned on keeping me there, silently and motionlessly writhing in a frustration I couldn't describe for one more second became too much. I was crying now, and I let out a long, harsh, grating sound of angry protest. I began to thrash beneath you, and I could tell by a sudden, confused cry that you were surprised. The sudden, violent outburst had succeeding in taking you off-guard. I managed to pull away from those adored and abhored, iressistable and intollerable soles just long enough to see your face. Your look of genuine shock pleased me.
I didn't let up on the thrashing, and you pushed the laptop aside, scrambling over to my head. Though you fumbled with the straps for a bit, it didn't take you long to remove the ballgag. Excitedly, you ask me if I'm alright, your eyes searching mine for some sign of what's wrong. Taking a moment to catch my breath, I tell you that nothing is wrong with me...medically, at least. As you're recovering from the shock, I explain that this has to stop now. It's past fun and games, it's past kinky. It's purely non-consentual torture, a one-sided act that was causing me sexual misery for her pleasure.
A look of irritation on your face, you interrupt me mid-sentence by shoving the ball-gag back into my mouth. After briefly scolding me for throwing such a childish tantrum and worrying you, you go on to explain that what I just described was the whole idea. I'd never hesitated to intimate with you how excited the idea of utterly dominating somebody was, how I lusted to push them into that world of non-consentual torment. Fixing me with a gaze somehow at once reprimanding and teasing, you further explain that the you want me to understand just how impossible that sort of play is in a consentual relationship. As wonderful and erotic as it sounds on paper, it just doesn't work.
Letting your smile soften, you run your hand over my hair and tell me that you think I've learned what you wanted now, and asked if I had. I nodded slowly, still twitching and squirming subconsciously. Giving a satisfied nod, you let out a breath and crawl back over to the laptop. Moments later your feet are once more resting on my face, hand back at and teasingly stroking my cock. In a teasing, mock-offended voice, you tell me that if I understand I'll quiet down and finish my punishment.
"Just take it," you instruct.
I buck a single time at the sudden surge of helplessness those words bring, unable to restrain myself. You give no reaction, already once more engrossed in your walkthrough. Again I'm forced to settle back into that maddening and helpless state of unwanted arrousal. Your feet wiggling and flexing and rubbing against my face more actively than ever quickly pushes me right back to my limits while your hand never seems to leave my involuntary hard-on. This time, though, you begin to tug at it and stroke in earnest. Bit by bit, you build me closer to the edge. It feels amazing, impossibly amazing, pure and perfect. The torment of your feet, given the outlet of sexual stimulation, suddenly becomes enjoyable. I can barely hold back the moans as your hand works me closer and closer.
I grew so lost in pleasure that I forgot the tragic conclusion that inevitably awaited me. Your hand abruptly stops, releasing my cock and zipping back to the keyboard, typing away happily as if it had forgotten all about what it was just doing. In a heartbeat, the shapely and soft and warm and perfect and wonderful touch of your feet on my face reverted back into a teasing, goading nightmare, the excitement they caused me once again going unmet. I could hear you humming happily in time with some vocaloid song, briefly catch a glimpse of you zoned out, eyes on the screen. For all the world, even as you kept me trapped beneath a pair of feet you knew that I could help but be sexually attracted to, it seemed as if you'd really tuned me out.
My mind had gone through the same loop of thoughts an uncountable number of times. First, I'd linger on how much I hated my situation, how desperate I was to get out of it. This brought the realization that I couldn't, and I played through a brief panick. I'd reel and shed a few new tears, unable to wrap my mind around putting up with another second of it, even knowing that I had to. Then, my thoughts would turn to finding some way out again. There had to be one, right? I was going out of my mind, and you were the one driving me right out of it. It simply couldn't go on; you couldn't keep having your way with me for another second. Back to the first step: I hate, hate, hate, hate this!
Mid-way through one of my cycles of coping with the torment, the light at the end of the tunnel appeared. You pulled your feet away, revealing a brightly grinning face. As you sit up, I notice that your laptop is off. I watch as you lean across my legs, your eyes focusing on my erect member for just a moment. Reaching out, you begin to annoyingly, gently tease just the tip, paying plenty of attention to my sweet spots. Without even meeting my pleading gaze, eyes still fixed on the penis you were having so much fun toying mercilessly with, you gave me the bad news.
While you had originally planned to let me loose and have wild sex as soon as you were done with the laptop - as you now were - that was no longer a possibility. Holding up your punishment pad, you tapped the sizeable field of hash marks, explaining that I'd earned every single extra punishment you'd thought up. While the list was long and each one made me cringe, it was the final, last one that chased the blood from my face.
"Since you broke our agreement, you'll just have to go to sleep without coming tonight, hmmf!"
I shook my head, and somehow I think my cock as well. You had on an apologetic smile, informing me that you were really looking forward to having sex when the night was over. Accusingly, you told me that I'd been given every chance and had messed up, reminded me that if I could have restrained myself from that little outburst so close to the end that we'd already be having wild sex. Having already earned all the punishments you'd thought up, I saw no harm in trying. A moment later though, you held up a finger and shh'd me. With some effort, I calmed down.
Tossing the pad aside, you offered me my final deal of the night. I'd be given no time to think about it, and there would be no compromise. From the moment you'd finished speaking, I'd have ten seconds to answer, and the answer would a simple "yes" or a "no". You slide forward a bit, taking my cock once again and resuming your slow, cruel stroking, building me bit by tiny, torturous bit back towards the brink of the orgasm I was so long, long overdue for. Once again your legs stretch out and you rest your feet on my chest, crossed at the ankle. I keep my eyes on yours, but can't help but pulse slightly at the distraction.
Soles wiggling, hand stroking, you spell out the conditions of this last deal. First, after the week-long period of no tickling/teasing/tieing/touching that I had agreed to earlier was over, I'd have to spend an additional month without tickling unless I had permission; this did not extend to bondage and teasing, though. Secondly, for an entire month past the prior arrangement, I'd also not be allowed to touch nor move your feet without permission. Wherever you put them, whether it was up on the table or right next to me in bed or even on my lap when we sat on the couch, I couldn't physically touch them or ask you to move them. Though I dreaded the fun you'd have at my expense with that one, you kept making it worse.
Third, once a week, you reserved the right to place me on orgasm hold. From the moment you told me until either 24 hours had passed or you had given me permission, I would not be allowed to cum. You would gain this priviledge for the full five weeks that the other torments, combined, were to last. Additionally and fourth, each week you would be allowed to give me three sexually-related commands, keeping track of each one as it was given, that I'd have to obey. This, too, would continue for five weeks.
Finally - and this one chased the newly returned colour from my face again - there was the penalty clause. If for any reason, at any time during the next five weeks I violated any of our arrangements, I would be forced to pay the penalty. This consisted of two hours beneath your feet, tied and horny, while you went about online business. Beyond that, for five hours after my penalty, I wouldn't be allowed to come. A casual look on your face, shrugging, you went on to observe that the last part really shouldn't matter, so long as I keep my end of the bargain. I couldn't help but feel a humourless grin tug at the corner of my lip, even gagged, at the obvious irony of the statement. You'd be doing everything in your power to push me into breaking those rules each and every day.
It hit me, though, that you'd stopped talking just then. An eager smile on your face, eyes sparkling, you waited for an answer I had only seconds to provide. Gagged, I was functionally limited to yes-or-no in any case; the problem was, it was a hell of a condition to succumb to for one orgasm. I could disagree now and go to sleep horny as sin. I'd wake up free and we'd have sex, or if not I'd jack off furiously. One week of keeping my hands to myself later I'd be free to do whatever I like to you. And, no matter what I do, /you'll/ be the one who's squirming and begging goes ignored as I take my pleasure out on you.
It'll be /you/ that "just has to take it!"
Still, though, your feet keep rubbing against my face even as the clock runs down, your hand keeps stroking my cock. Sanity and reason were far from the ruling forces in my mind. I watch as you hold a hand up, five fingers spread; feel a chill as you curl in each finger one by one, starting with your thumb. Just as your pointer falls, indicating that I have three seconds left, your soles slide back up along my face, the flesh and soft pads of the balls of your feet obstructing my vision. Another moment passes, the pull, the desperate need to finish surging up within me. I didn't know if there were two seconds left, one, or zero.
Rapidly, desperately, moaning internally in defeat, I nodded.
You removed your feet for another moment, sliding forward and reaching for my gag. A moment later the strap was undone; helping me roll onto my side, you again release my arms. I fall onto my back, arms spread, and catch my breath as you untie my legs again. Finally, once and for good, I'm free. Before I can sit up and reach for you, though, you lift your feet back up and put them on my face. All the while, your hand continues stroking.
Sighing, I reach for your ankles. Just as I grab them, though, you ask me in a questioning voice if I've forgotten my promise so soon. I freeze in place, thinking about it for a moment before the misery of that statement hits me. You'd placed your feet in my face, and I couldn't remove them without permission. The tightness by which you'd have me by the balls for the upcoming five weeks really began to sink in. Once more commensing that maddening wiggling against my face - no longer trapped by bondage of rope and cuff, but just as infuriatingly trapped all the same - you ask me if I'm ready to cum.
I tell you that I am, but I'd really like to cum inside of you. You part your feet for a moment, a sultry and inquisitive look on your face, asking if I was only good for just one orgasm after that. Taking your meaning, I rested my arms alongside my stomach and waited. Soles flexing and squirming up a storm, still driving me wild, your hand picked up it's pace. Already slick with my own precum, it didn't take long until I was on the edge.
When release finally came, my entire body trembled with the paralytically intense surge of long-anticipated, perfect pleasure. I could feel myself spout a much larger load than normal, half of it washing of your hand and the rest splattering against my waist, just between my crotch and my stomach. Giving a final little wiggle against my face, your feet at last disappeared. I watched with glazed eyes through a fog of contentment as you lovingly licked up every last bit of my seed from your hand, then my body. When you were finished, eyes shining and a tiny smile on those impossibly soft, crazy cute lips, you climbed up my body and rested atop me.
Though it'd only been a moment ago that they'd ended, already the memories of my suffering from earlier in the day were fading rapidly. Right now, I was holding you; the you I loved, the you who was an unchallenged expert at making me feel good. You feel warm, and soft, and wonderful against my body. Somehow, even though I've just cum, I can feel myself getting up again.
I ask if you'd like to be tied, teased, or tickled, mostly in jest. You laugh, straddling my chest and kissing me. In answer, you ask if I'm sick of your feet yet. I shake my head, then nod, then explain that while I'll never be sick of the world's sexiest feet, I have in fact had my fill of them for a while. Nodding in satisfaction, you lean in for another kiss. We've not yet broken it when I feel your hand grab my member, once again hard, and guide towards your waiting sex. Our lips part slowly as our bodies join elsewhere, my renewed erection slipping into you inch by blissful inch. Soon, I'm all the way in. My hands lift to take you by the hips, holding you up and aiding in your motions.
When you begin to fuck me this time, it is without restraint or abandon. With each thrust you lift your hips off of me completely, slide back down with a passionate force that rocks us both. Lost in the beauty and ecstatic perfection that is each the other's touch, both of our staminas built up by recent orgasm, we crashed our bodies against eachother in the act of wild, hot, sex for over an hour. My eyes remained open in a blissful daze, taking in your parted lips and lidded eyes, your breasts as they bounced with each movement, the wild halo of your hair and the curves of your body. I want you in every way possible, intensely and uncontrollably. Even when I'm burried in you to my balls, I want more.
As I grind back into the bed and thrust back into you, lost in my need to have you in every way, your eyes remain fixed on the ceiling, your head tilted slightly back. Though I can't say for sure what you're seeing, lost in a bliss that grows with each forceful, bucking thrust of my cock into your tight, loving pussy, I imagine it's just as pure and wonderful as everything else about the pleasure you bring me is. Your moans become more intense; my own slowly catch up, the sounds mixing together to tell the story of our pleasure, a song only the two of us can hear and truly understand. I'm overwhelmed by my love for you even as I hunger endlessly more for the pleasure of your touch.
Just like that, the white-hot pressure at the core of my loins detonates, and I lock up with the pleasure of a second orgasm. You'd come just before that, but I hadn't noticed, drunk on the high of my own sexual enjoyment. Slowly, bit by bit, our bodies slowed down, eventually coming to rest. My cock still inside of you, gradually turning limp, you lay down atop my chest. Without a thought my arms wrap around your back, pulling you as close to me as possible. For a while, we lay in that embrace, panting and breathing and basking in our mutual love and lust.
Eventually, though, the calm sets in. Both of us are spent of sexual need, and a fuzzy, cuddly sort of loving takes it's place. You snuggle up alongside me, and I turn off the lights. It's early yet, but neither of us seem to have any problem with calling it a night there. Satisfied, the day's trials long forgotten, I cuddle you tightly, laying on my side, my arm around your chest. Practically purring, whispering sweet nothings and making tiny sounds of happiness and love, you cuddle me back. You still feel warm, soft, and wonderful against my body.
I tell you I love you more than I'll ever have the words to say. You tell me that you love me too, more than anything else in this or any world. We sigh in unison, say goodnight, and fall asleep in eachothers arms.
-----------------------------
The following day, after we've returned from our respective daily obligations, we spend some time watching TV together, unwinding in the early evening. After some time, coy smile on your face, you put your bare feet firmly on my lap. I feel the stir of excitement between my legs instantly, feel a brief tug of irritation at the agreement that keeps me from removing them or touching them. Making the best of it, I ask your permission to give you a massage. You put on a great show of thinking long and hard on it, before finally shaking your head and answering maybe later. I nod, smiling outwardly and letting out a long, annoyed sigh. It was only the first day in, and already you were determined to break my will.
Unfortunately for you, there was a loophole in our agreement. The very moment you'd removed your feet from my lap I was up. Excited, quaking with barely-restrained sadistic lust, I took you by your hand and lead you to the room. The smile on your face told me that you hadn't gotten it yet, that you felt safe and secure from my worst shenanigans. We undressed and embraced, moving toward the bed. When I sat down, though, I did not pull you with me. Taking you by the wrist, I yanked you down and spread you across my knee. Blushing, you let out one of those adorable, confused "nya"s I love so, so much.
The full realization of what was happening didn't hit you until roughly the same time my hand did, falling across your left ass cheek with a loud and satisfying snap. You let out a sound and kicked your legs a bit, squirming to get off my knee. One hand firmly pressing down across your shoulderblades, my other leg scissoring over yours, I had you trapped over my knee without using a single rope. I let a second spank fall across your gently blushing ass, the colour darkening.
I'd keep spanking you without relenting for almost fifteen minutes, switching cheeks every few strokes. You squirmed and begged and threatened, telling me that I was breaking my promise. I paused only for one moment, giving you a smile as sadistic and cold as the ones you'd been giving me all yesterday. Even without my saying, you realized that I was in no way prohibited from spanking you. Your break over, I resummed swatting your trapped, pale, soft ass relentless, drinking in your broken cries and complaints. I didn't stop, in fact, until my hand was too sore to continue anymore. By then, both sides of your ass were a beautiful, glowing cherry red.
So began the cycle that would last for the next five weeks. Some days would pass quietly, each of keeping to our own and the day ending in some loving, consensual sex. Others, though, were all-out war, particularly those when you or I would be feeling particularly playful. You would catch me off guard somewhere, using one of your three weekly commands to put me in some compromising position or waiting until I was sitting to put your feet up on lap or shoulders, knowing that I couldn't move until you'd removed them, wiggling and flexing and doing your absolute best to get a rise out of me.
In return or pre-emptively, when your commands for the week were up or just to force you to use one, I'd find opportunities to get you as well. Spankings were a common retaliation against the constant foot-teasing. Additionally, I'd reasoned another torment: while our agreement barred me from teasing you, I was free to make you orgasm. Taking this to it's extreme, I'd occasionally pin you and get you off, with any or all of my fingers, my tongue, or a vibrator, forcing you to four or five orgasms. I'd make you scream and beg and promise to quit teasing me before I'd stop. The next day, our games would begin anew.
Just a couple of weeks in, though, you got me. A sitting at the computer and you were in bed on your laptop, both of us engrossed in our own business. Lifting your leg towards me, you rested your foot on my shoulder. Glancing over, my mind elsewhere, I took you by the sole and pushed it aside. A moment later, to the sound of your loud "ha!", I felt my stomach sink with the realization of what I'd just done. Bouncing excitedly from the bed, you ran to the closet and grabbed the bondage gear, unused since the last time.
Moping, I insisted that it didn't count since I wasn't really fully aware that I was touching your foot. Fixing me with a coy, challenging look, you asked if I was really going to go back on my promise. Cornered, I asked if we could do it later. A sparkle in your eye, you told me that you were already using the computer; now would be the perfect time. Undressing, I tried to mentally for the two-hour stretch of frustration in store for me. It was annoying, and terrible, and...I couldn't wait for it to begin. My cock grew hard just from my thinking about it.
Somehow, more than the untennable torment, the memory of how wildly, intensely exciting I'd been that first night kept coming to mind. I knew I'd hate it, knew exactly how terrible it would feel, how desperately I'd want it to end once it had started. Still, though, my body refused to listen to reason. Naked, I let you tie me just as you had last time. I laid compliantly down on the bed, watched with mounting anticipation as you cuffed my ankles and fastened my legs to the boxspring, immobilizing me. My heart raced as you gave me one final, teasing looking before placing your warm, soft soles onto my face.
I hated it as much as I remembered, maybe even more. I hated being unable to touch myself, unable to feel something other than your occasional light, teasing strokes. I hated your silky, torturously erotic soles on of my face. I hated being helpless, unable to do anything about the situation, hated being completely at your mercy. I hated wanting, desperately and completely, to cum, a need that grew with each moment.
Your feet rubbed and flexed and wiggled against my face, whipping me into an intollerable state of inescapable sexual frustration. As always, you teased me all the while, told me that I deserved this. You reminded me that I'd agreed to this, taunted that I must really enjoy it to touch her feet even knowing that I'd have to endure this. Playing with my cock, you insisted that if I didn't really want you to do this, I wouldn't be so hard. And - just like last time - you spoke those words that stung worst of all, the words that annoyed me beyond comprehension and made me throb with wild excitement at the same time.
"You just have to take it."
They set me on edge, and it was clear to me that you knew as much. It was your favourite taunt, and you never missed an opportunity to tell me. I "just had to take" your agonizingly sexy feet, I "just had to take" your insanely teasing hand. I "just had to take" being helpless, writhing in desperate unfulfilled need, while you went about your business like nothing was wrong. I "just had to take" the feeling of sexual excitement that those loathesome words forced onto me each and every time they passed your lips. I "just had to take" the absurd humiliation as each taunt served fuel both my indignity and my lust well beyond my ability to manage.
Then, when the two hours were up, you told me that I was half way done. I'd have to do two more, since I'd both touched /and/ moved your foot. I whined and bucked at the revelation, but you didn't seem to care. I started crying once again, started thrusting my hips. Just like that, armed with nothing but the most ridiculous technicality, you'd turned the end of that hellacious torment right back into it's beginning. Still, though, you were prepared for my reaction this time. You told me to calm down, threatened to make it even worse if I didn't shut up and sit still. You spelled out my options in three words that ignited my sanity into a blazing inferno of indignant rage and made me quiver with sexual delight at the same time.
"Just take it."
Though I cried and squirmed, begged through my gag and bucked occasionally, you would not relent. Your hand continued to tease my erection, focusing in particular on that particularly sweet and maddening torment of rubbing the very tip. Against my face, your soles absently continued their unending cycle of slow, soft friction, the sort that aroused me and frustrated me to and past the limits of sanity with each passing second. All the while, you browsed sites and chatted and listened to songs and read, looking so absorbed in your work that your limbs seemed to be on auto-pilot.
I hated it so much that the words wouldn't come. My hate for that particular torment became caustic, bitter. It was the perfect torture; nothing could shake my mind to it's foundation quite so well as having such a wonderful source of pleasure turned into an instrument of torture. The constant sexual excitement caused by your feet would have been wonderful, but the inability to climax turned that same arrousal into a horrible torment. Being unable to climax when I wanted to so bad made me feel frustrated and helpless. Feeling frustrated and helpless made me feel even more excited, no matter how much I wished it wouldn't. The more aroused I became, the more trapped and annoyed I felt; the more trapped and annoyed I felt, the more aroused I became.
Eighty-five minutes later, you pulled your feet from my face and informed me that I was lucky; you were tired, and wanted to go to bed. I moaned once in response, waiting for you to untie me. While being spared even a second of that torment was a godsend, I had a very hard time considering myself lucky for that when I'd already been forced to endure so much extra torment on a whim in the first place. Even as you released me, though, you reminded me that I was not allowed to cum for five hours now. I knew already, and hearing you say it irritated me to no end, made me feel helpless all over again. That feeling, in turn, made me even more excited.
Naturally, I begged. Ultimately, you gave me a blowjob in exchange for a renewed weeks supply of sex-demands. Tired, you went to bed, warm and soft and clinging to my back. For a long while after, though, I remained awake. I laid still, sweating a bit, utterly confused. My head swam with the fresh memories of that torment, and my cock would not stop aching. Quietly, I stroked myself besides you, lingering over every agonized moment you kept me trapped beneath your soles.
For another week after that, we continued our systematic sexual exploits against the other. Several times in that short while, you nearly made me touch your feet. Each time I was saved by some grace or luck; sweat forming on my brow as you fixed me with that adorable and menacing look and snapped your fingers. Though the relief I felt at not earning myself another one of those insidiously horrible penalties was deep and heartfelt, a surge of primal excitement passed through me each time I came close, disappointment replacing it as I narrowly escaped that unbearable fate.
I had two weeks left when I hit my breaking point. You'd been mercifully distracted for several days, leaving me to my devices and I leaving you to yours. Then, on the third day of the fourth week, for the first time in a long time, I saw that frisky and playful light spark in your eye as you stepped out of the shower. Using your first command of the week, you told me that I had to paint your toenails. A sly grin on your luscious lips, you made sure to remind me that this did not mean that I had permission to touch your feet. Sitting down on the bed, you propped up your feet on my lap, soles pinker, warmer, and softer than ever from the recent shower.
By some strange miracle, I managed to paint your nails properly. Neither did I touch your feet at any time nor do a poor job; your disappointment was fairly evident when I finished my last stroke, a smug grin on my own face, without incident. Not one to be out-smugged, though, you lifted a foot to my chest and pushed back. Before I knew it I was sprawled out on my back, your feet resting comfortably on my chest. Looking every bit the victor, you used a second command to force me to keep my hands still; I was not, you stated, to touch myself until your nails were completely dry.
If it had been one coat...if I'd only had to wait for that one coat to dry, I would have made it. Just before the last spot had dried, though, you grabbed the polish and gave yourself a second coat; when that was dry, a third. All the while, eyes fixed on either those wiggling, irrestistable feet or your taunting face, I thought about doing something. Again and again my mind ran through the actions I could take and the consequences I would face. Each time, it all inevitably came down to that one thing; there was no way I could take the punishment. I'd have to deal with this, for now; another eleven days and everything would be back to normal. Just resist for now. Just...
I could see the initial look of shock in your eye when I grabbed one of your feet, lifting it from my chest. When it passed, a slow and sly grin crept over your face. I met your eyes, shaking my head. You told me that I'd again earned four hours, for touching and moving your foot; I responded by lifting it to my mouth and kissing your big toe. Satisfied that the polish was dry, I placed it into my mouth. You moaned a bit, then ran your over foot teasingly over my cock. Releasing your toe, I told you to get naked.
The coy look you gave me only lasted a moment. Gripping your ankle tightly, I danced my fingers up and down your sole. The reaction was instant; I'd forgotten how much I loved it. As ever, you yanked desperately as the trapped foot, melted in laughter. I grabbed your other foot, too, as you pushed at my chest with it in an attempt to pull free. Securing both tightly, irremovably in the crook of my arm, I unleashed a fury that had been building for a long, long time. Cock raging with joy, my soul soaring with the music of your panicked, uncontrollable laughter, I tore across your soles until you couldn't laugh anymore.
When you'd recovered I muscled myself a blow-job. The feeling of being back in control was impossibly, blissfully grand. After I'd nutted in your mouth, I threw you over the bed and quickly got you tied in a figure-X, one limb to each post. I re-introduced you to the gag, then to a vibrator or two. You cried and begged and struggled like mad, but I was love-drunk on tormenting you. I wanted to bring you to the edge of madness, then push you past it. I wanted to tease, tickle, and torment you sillier than I ever had.
When the night was over, we struck a new deal. All previous agreements were to be null going forward. In the future, I would mind my fetishy shenanigans and try not to push things too far. You, in return, wouldn't keep egging me on so much, always doing those little things you know just drive me wild. The quirky and unending cycle of tease and retaliation had, for the foreseeable future, ended.
No matter how I threatened or bargained, though, you would not relent on one point: I still owed ten hours of penalty. Touching, Moving, Tickling, Tying, Teasing - each was against the rules, and each had meant two hours of aching, frustrated lust. You asserted that since I'd earned these before we'd come to the new deal, they were not included. I counter-asserted that no way uh-uh I'm not doing it. You threatened that you'd get me in my sleep again if I didn't man up and take my lumps, promised that I'd do extra time for putting you through the trouble. Given that you'd already done it once, it was hard to call you on a bluff. Reluctantly, I agreed to serve it in four two and a half hour sessions, spread out over the next month.
When the first day rolled around, you had your hands full getting me to relent. Childishly I ran away, darting and hiding around the house to avoid the punishment. When at last you'd caught me, I switched tactics to seduction, doing my best to sack you as a diversion. Finally, after you'd again resorted to reminding me that it would happen one way or another, I hesitantly relented. Squirming and fuming and hating every second, I spent two more hours beneath your feet in helpless sexual frustration. I fought less next week, and relented with little more than pithy comments the third. You found me naked and waiting the fourth week, even laughing that I'd gotten used to it.
Each time you put me through it was worst than the time before. All the same, though, something disturbing was happening. I dreaded each successive punishment more than the one before it, but also grew impossibly excited and anxious, moreso each time. When I'd finally paid off all four sessions of it, I found myself unusually torn on that day the following week. Knowing that I never had to spend another minute in that exquisite torment filled me with relief like nothing else, but also left a nagging, stinging sense of disappointment.
That night, while you slept, I snuck to the foot of the bed and pressed my face to your hot, motionless soles. I touched myself, quiet and calm as possible, doing my best not to cum. I barely lasted ten minutes; I lacked the will to restrain myself, erupting into my hand while I pretended that my face was trapped against your feet. Washing up, face blushed and head buzzing with every kind of thought, I went to sleep.
Life went on, though every now and again a memory of that most introllerable and intoxicating torment would boil it's way to the surface. I'd shove it aside each time, doing my best to recall just how much I despised it. Each time, though, the memories of suffering were paler, fuzzier; the lasting impression of pure erotic charge, though, was sharper, brighter. Twice more I attempted teasing myself, using your feet, while I slept. It drove me mad to admit it, but I wanted to live through it again.
Not too long after that, there was one night where you were particularly frisky. You were practically begging me to come after you, and I did. Escaping from a bout of tickling, you curled up and insisted that I was mean, even though you'd been basically demanding it. Laughing, I said as much, insisting that you loved it. You denied it, then I re-asserted. We went back and forth for a bit, and you eventually called me a tickle addict, bet me that I couldn't go a single week without tickling.
It had been a good few months since the events above, life and the natural procession of time mostly washing them from both our memories. Still, though, that nagging excitement, that misleading and rose-tinted spectre of that hated, despised, and longed-for torment popped right into my mind. I took the bet, asking what you would wager. Thinking for a moment, you offered to take as much tickling as I could dish out, no complaints, over the course of an entire day if I won. The thought of having you wilfully submit yourself to that filled me with a surge of anticipation; I very nearly made the wise decision to forget all my silly schemes and just win the contest. I loved tickling you into fits of unrestrained madness. I really, really loved it.
That fel impulse would not be ignored, though. I wagered an entire day of bondage and orgasm denial, citing by way of example the one that had started everything nearly four months back. Even as the words left my mouth, I felt a chilling rush of excitement run down my spine. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to feel it again. Memories of raw, unbriddled arrousal and sexual excitement raced through my mind. I remembered that I hated it, but could not remember why. The sub-bug had bitten me hard, and I would be it's prey.
For five days of the week I restrained myself, playing over fantasies of that torment in my head and holding off. Second thoughts gnawed at me like a swarm of wild insects. You didn't make it easy, either; teasing me at every turn, begging to be tickled, constantly leaving subtle but highly inviting openings. I nearly broke down twice on the second day, your wiggling soles always just inside arm's reach, your ribs and armpits always bare, vulnerable, unguarded. The seventh day of the week was on me before I even knew it.
By the time I'd gotten back for the evening, there were less than seven hours remaining to our bet. You seemed to remember that night more keenly than you had the others, and I even went out of my way to taunt you about it. Just a few more hours, I told you with a sadistic grin, and you'd be mine for a whole day of screaming, thrashing, wailing fun. Your nervous eyes and adorable pout were nearly, /nearly/ enough to tempt me into winning. The thought of your frightened face, flushed with the same anxious, ambivalent desire that was driving me on, stirred my sleeping cock to life. I longed to see you naked, bound, and utterly helpless before me; I ached to hear you scream and beg.
My madness was not going to give up so easily, though; even as I practically drooled over a day of remorseless tickling, that wildly erotic forbidden fruit I'd been so meticulously sown the seeds of would not let hold of my imagination. I took the time to play the events over in my memory, walk through the last day I spent bound against my will and utterly at your mercy. I could bring the events back to mind, could look at them objectively and recognize them for what they are. Every last scrap of logic and reason in my mind constructed the torment I was so close to subjecting myself to as madness. It was something that I did not like, something that my body fooled me, /forced/ me to think I did. The truth was, I hated it. I hated it like crazy, and would hate it even more this time.
After nearly a whole night of teasing you about all the things I'd do to you once I'd won, less than an hour to midnight, I moved forward and made playful, fake tickling gestures at you. "Completely by accident" my wiggling fingers went just a bit too far, brushing up and down your soles. You giggled and yanked your foot away, then lit up with a glow of triumph. We launched into an argument about the validity of that tickle; I fought and protested nearly all the way to midnight. When you wouldn't give up your victory, I offered instead to call it a draw. You considered it for a good while.
In the end, you wouldn't relent. I was being a sore loser, you said. You pointed out that our games and bets and dares would become a lot less fun if we didn't follow through with them, win or lose. Begrudgingly, I relented and agreed to take my lumps on a day off next week. Oddly, through the whole thing, I never once had to fake my reluctance to accept the punishment. From the very moment I'd pulled the trigger, I'd begun regretting it.
A week and change later, I found myself in a position that was becoming more and more horrifyingly familiar with each second. Naked, bound arm and leg, gagged, I wiggled nervously in place on the bed. You announced that it was nine fifty in the morning; I had agreed to a full day, so you would continue until either you'd had enough or midnight, whichever came first. Again, I was not permitted to struggle and beg; repeated violation of this agreement would deprive me of my orgasm at the punishment's conclusion. As I watched you settle down alongside my hips, laptop on your thighs, it finally came back to me. My cock already hard and hot, the feeling of utter and complete helplessness finally geling in my brain, the true, overwhelming horror of the situation I'd put myself in surged in waved back from my memory.
You asked if I was ready to start, and I shook my head. I was already sweating, my limbs twitching involuntarily. Up until just a moment ago, the punishment had been dancing through my head as a memory of manic and raging sexual excitement, an irresistable and glorious and unending blitz of arrousal. At the last moment, watching that cruel and smug look settle onto your face, I remembered clearly, though. It was an unstoppable and wild roller-coaster of intense, electric sexual desire and lust that I'd been strapped irremovably into; at no point on the ride, though, would I encounter the stimulation nor release that these things made him so urgently and desperately crave.
Realizing what I had done to myself drove me absolutely insane with self-loathing and groin-splitting surges of futile, tormented frustration. I quivered and whimpered a last, garbled word of regret through my gag as you lifted one foot and settled it on my face, then the other. They sent crashing, surging waves of excitement through my whole being, set my cock ablaze. I knew that until you removed them they would remain there, gentle and maddening, rubbing and flexing and twitching endlessly, until /you/ were ready to remove them. I knew I was helpless, and that too filled me with a powerful, thrilling sort of arrousal.
Just as I'd remembered back when I'd decided to make this world of torment my own again, the combination of being completely at your mercy and having your feet forced upon me was sexually exciting beyond words. Unfortunately, just as I'd remembered at the last moment, much too late to stop it, that very excitement was the thing that made it was so brutally torturous that I'd give anything to escape from it.
I hated it. I hated it, I hated it! Every second of that long, mind-shattering day, I hated it with a furious intensity. I went out of my mind and fought and wept like crazy, but you stuck to your guns. I hated it; you made absolutely sure that I hated it. You made it your job to make sure that I hated it more than I ever hated anything.
When I'd sobbed and suffered through the whole thing again, I was in a very odd state of mind. You seemed to pick up on this, somehow, and took advantage. A mere three hours from the end, broken and more desperate than I'd ever felt my whole life, you made me an offer for release. It was a desperate, insane, proposterously lopsided offer, and I nearly lost my mind just thinking about how wildly, intensely, and furiously I'd regret making it.
In exchange for freedom three hours early, you would be allowed to force me to endure this torment any time you were in the mood for it, any day of any year, for the rest of my life. All that you had to do was ask for it, and I would have - as always with our agreements - no choice but to submit. Even if you were the one bound, even during my most sublime moments of dominance, you could invoke it. There would be no conditions, no limits. Any time you wanted to torture me this way, I would have to compliantly agree. For life.
I screamed into the gag just thinking about it, and you giggled and smiled so smugly that I screamed again. There was no way I could ever accept this. You reminded me that there were still three hours, and asked if I'd be able to take it. You slowly stroked your toes, just barely resting their fleshy pads against my cheeks, up and down my face. I cried and screams. I had never hated the torment than I had now. Three more hours was not possible. Now, it had to end now, and not a second later.
Just before I could agree though, you told me that there was one more condition. My domming days were over. While you did like it, while it did sexually excite her more than a bit, you'd found a new pleasure in being dominant over the last few sessions. It thrilled her, elated her, filled her with a feeling of freedom and clarity that you'd never known. You confessed that lately, being submissive just didn't feel right. It wasn't less sexually exciting, but the problem was that you felt frustrated and annoyed just thinking about how I felt in control, understanding that feeling so well. Somehow, being dominated was just too annoying. You didn't want to be dominated anymore.
The thought of completely handing over the keys smashed me like a ton of bricks. I knew how terrible it felt to desire domination and be forced into the submissive role. It was a hell of it's own, as bad as the physical torments. Even worse, in fact. You could see the thoughts running through my eyes, and you leaned forward to remove the gag, though you didn't hesitate to return her feet to my face, her toes and the pads of her feet continuing to brush my face. This was my last chance.
I explained to her that I was a dom, not a sub. It was the act of controlling that makes me excited, it's something I enjoy too much to measure. I couldn't go on without occasionally feeling that pleasure, that knowledge that you are in my power, that I could do whatever I wanted to you and you would be helpless to stop it. I reminded you that you knew how important that was to me when we'd been in the early stages of our relationship.
You told me that it seemed that, whether or not I knew it, my body liked being a sub. I tried to argue that it wasn't true, but I knew I was lying. I really did hate it! I could never, ever find the words to describe how much I hated it! I hated her feet in my face, I hated not being allowed to cum! I hated knowing that were feeling that same thrill that I felt when I had dominated her! I hated her smug smile, her teasing looks and words! I would literally rather be put in an iron maiden than suffer one minute of it.
At the same time, I explained, my body craved it. I'd rather fight that craving and just go back to being a full time dom. Even as I'm explaining all of this, though, there's a look in your eyes that I can't full describe. It's a hungry look, and you start shaking your head. I finally stop speaking, and this makes you smile. Your feet pat my face excitedly, and you giggle. A jole of indignant frustration runs through me, and my cock twitches with need.
You explain that you might like to be tickled some time, and you may even feel the craving to be dommed again, but that it would be when you want, not when I want. Even in my dominance, I would be submissive, being allowed to tie and tickle you only with permission. You know how much I love it, and you would never deny me that forever, but you've found your true passion in being in control. This drives me crazy; I love you, nothing could ever make me leave you, but I can't stand the thought of being a sub! Anything, I beg, anything else, but I can't be the sub!
My protesting brings a new glow to your eyes, and I feel a sinking in the pit of my stomach. You love my desperation so much. You've come to enjoy the taste of complete control, the way I do. You now know why I always told you that I'd never be happy controlling somebody who enjoyed being controlled. You understand how much happier I'd be to dominate you now, to feed off of your frustration and humiliation, to make you suffer in pleasure. Worst of all, you want it for yourself.
Finally, you reach back for the gag. You dangle it from your fingers, twitching your toes maddeningly against my cheeks. Slowly, you say the words: Any time, for the rest of our life, you can force me to submit to you. I will never be allowed to tie, tickle, restrain, spank, or engage in any act of sexual dominance against you without your permission. You will be in charge, and I will spend the rest of my life your full-time sub. That's the deal. Take it or leave it.
I cried, not in sorrow but in the depths of a frustration that was beyond tolerating. I was throbbing with excitement. The thought of a lifetime of helpless frustration was getting me sexually aroused like mad, even as it boiled my brain. I didn't want to be anyone's sub! I didn't want to be used for somebody else's pleasure. I didn't want somebody to gloat and lord over me and take the pleasure in my suffering that I used to take in theirs! Especially not you, who I've loved dominating so much!
You move your feet again, and I know the ballgag is coming. Three more hours. Maybe this won't be your last attempt to make me agree, but if I can just endure three more hours of this, I'll be free. Everything will go back to normal. I'll make you beg and scream and make you promise to never dom me again at the first chance. I'll torment you more than ever, until you forget the taste of being on top, and then everything will be the way it was, the way it should be. The way it needs to be.
But now, the ballgag is going back into my mouth. Your taking your time, putting it in slowly, giving me an insufferable look of complete victory. You tell me that the next three hours are going to be the worst of my life. You tell me that you'll never take your hand off my cock, that you'll just keep rubbing, slowly, that you'll tease me to the very brink of orgasm over and over again. Your feet will just slide up and down my face, slowly, lovingly, toes twitching all the while. Then, you say those words.
"And you'll just have to take it!"
I agreed to your bargain. As I choked out the words, I felt a conflict of emotions like none other. I couldn't describe it. It was a despair bordering on the abyss, but at the same time an elation like none other. My useless, sex-craved body wanted what my mind could not possibly bare. I don't even get the chance to take it back. You shoved the gag back into my mouth and locked it in, and I start screaming and thrashing with a fury that I've never had before. You sit there and smile sweetly, eyes longing, until I run out of energy, until I'm quiet.
You explained that, as agreed, the session has ended, three hours early. Now, a new session was beginning, just as I had agreed. The look of triumph, of domination, of absolute, sheer bliss on your face nearly killed me on the spot. I screamed again as you put your soles back onto my face, now slick with my own, humiliating tears. You know how to rub them the way that excites me the most, drives me the most insane with lust, and you do just that. I felt your fingers wrap around my cock and begin to stroke.
I moaned, wept and begged through my gag and made as much fuss as I had the energy left to. In the end, I would be forced to suffer through those last three hours anyway, on top of having sabotaged the rest of my days with my most dreaded, hated of sexual torment. I could not reconcile the misery I felt while trapped in that world of unfulfilled, helpless, mind-consuming sexual desire with my actions.
Even worse, you keep teasing me in that beautiful, wicked sing-song voice of yours, telling me what torments you were dreaming up. I would never again have a single orgasm that you didn't permit. Your feet were off limits without your permission, and you'd make sure that I spent as much time in proximity to them as possible. Everything that I loved and sexually craved would become a weapon, meant to turn my private life into a constant ongoing act of sexual torture.
The irony that you had first used this torture to teach me a lesson that doing such a thing was not okay in a consentual relationship was not lost on me. You'd first denied me to make me realize that I was overdoing it, and now you'd be doing it, doing what I used to do to you. Even so, I'd never get the chance to teach you the lesson back. I'd spend the rest of my days, frustrated and sorry, an unwilling sub, bound if not by ropes, eternally by the chains of my unconditional love for you.
"And..." you say, giggling for a moment, "You'll just have to take it."
I feel myself breaking, but I can't do a thing. The torment is already the worst it's ever been, and I'm going nuts. I'm thrashing, I can't even control myself anymore. The lifetime of frustration ahead of me is almost forgotten as I stuggle helplessly. I'm convinced that it can't get any worse. No matter how many times I feel that smooth, silky sensation of your foot sliding up my face, it still excites me just as much. No matter how many times I feel your fingertips lightly and teasingly stimulating my cock, it makes me just as mad with lust.
I hated it! I hated it so purely, so desperately! I despised, reviled, loathed, contempted...
...I...!
I would never be able to stand it. For so long as I lived, against all logic, my body would torture me with it's sick desire to force me through that nightmare over, and over, and over. I'd hate every minute of it...but I'd never, ever stop going back for more. You had won.
Update: I think I've almost got the perspective down to first person. The tenses are still ridiculous, though, so bear with me.
You Just Have To Take It
It's been a long week, and every night I've been teasing you to the edge before sex. I've been in an extremely dominant mood, tying you up and teasing your pussy for a loooong time, making you squirm and beg before I finally satisfy you; when you've had your orgasm, each night, I lay down across your ankles and tickle your tied feet until you're too breathless to laugh anymore. As much as you love and hate and love to hate it, eventually, you feel like a change.
One day we're both off and I'm feeling frisky. I lure you into the bedroom, and we have hot, consentual, straight-up sex. We go to take a shower and during it I bend you over and take your back door, too. When we're clean and back in bed, we cuddle lovingly for a while, and then you begin to feel excited again. Just as you think we're about to have sex again, out come the ropes. Eyes fixed on my erection, bobbing about as I tie you up, you beg me for one more orgasm. Instead, I tickle you for hours, on and off. The only breaks you get from the tickling you spend with a weak vibrator between your legs, watching me jack off to the sound of you begging and the sight of you trying in vain to break free.
Rather than just tell me outright that my tickling is getting out of hand, since you're still enjoying yourself, you decide to teach me a lesson. The next night we're off, you make sure I take some sleeping pills before bed. While I'm deep asleep, you carefully move me onto my side, cuffing my hands behind my back and letting my body's weight pin my trapped arms, tying my ankles together to the base of the bed so I can't move anything but my head. You cut my boxers off with a pair of scissors; they're no special pair, nothing I can't replace for a few bucks. Finally, set up your laptop and wait for me to wake up.
When I come to, it doesn't take long before I realize the situation I'm in. You look up and wish me good morning, acting like nothing's unusual, laying alongside me in the pose. I give you a smile and wiggle a bit, and you can see that I'm already getting excited. I ask you what you have planned, but this time you don't say anything. Instead, you hold up the ball gag to let me know what's in store.
I smile and laugh nervously, then tell you I'm not really in the mood for this right now. Instead, I propose, we should have some breakfast and then maybe a little morning sex, get ready for the day. Before I can complain any more, though, you put the gag in my mouth and tell me that I am ready for the day. You briefly explain that I've been going a bit overboard with the tickling and teasing lately; you've set aside this day off to teach me a lesson in moderation.
I know what you're planning and give you a warning look; after the first time we did this (also the last), you made me eat my words about wanting it. It was too frustrating, too intense, and I told you that even if I did agree to it in the future it wouldn't be for nearly as long and that you needed to be much more lenient. A smug smile on your face, you inform me that it won't be as bad or as long as last time. Instead, it'll be much worse, for much longer. You lean over and kiss me on the cheek as I start to complain, then whisper some rules into my ear.
First, I am to keep as quiet as possible and just take my punishment. You will keep track of every sound I make, imposing increasing cumulative penalties if I make too much noise. Secondly, you state that I have to keep any and every promise I make, even if you're forcing me to make it. By now I know that our sexual agreements work on an unquestionable honor system; as much as it kills me, I have to agree. Third, I have to agree to consider this just deserts; absolutely no retribution.
Finally, you tell me that there's one easy way out: climax. If I can somehow manage to cum, at any point, you'll let me go. Not only that, but you'll agree to take as much revenge on you as I want, for the rest of the day. The other side of the condition, though, is that if I can't climax before you let me go, I'm not allowed to touch your feet, tie you, tickle you, or tease you for a week, unless you specifically ask me to. For this entire week, as well, I will not be allowed to orgasm any time without your direct prior approval.
I know that you're serious, and I give you a final look telling you "Not today! Not this, not right now!" Your smile is heartbreakingly cruel and smug, and it fills me with fury and a desire to break out. I can't help but squirm a bit, testing the strength of the bonds holding my arms, desperate not to suffer a repeat of the last time I spent on the bottom. By now you've learned how to keep me perfectly immobile, though; it's pretty clear that in my position I won't be escaping on my own.
As much as the situation and your smugness is driving me crazy, I can't help but become excited. By now I'm at full mast, my body longing for a torture I already know I don't want. Teasingly, you tell me that you wouldn't do it if I wasn't enjoying it, but - giving a light, teasing stroke up the underside of my shaft - it appears I clearly am. I try to say "Oh come on!" through the gag, managing to make some sad whining noise in it's place. You hold up a finger and mark the noise down on a notepad you've got setup nearby, then roll onto your side and sit up.
First, you tell me, you've got some things to finish up online. Aside from checking your tumblers and blogs, you also have a manga you've just started that you find very interesting. Pilling up some pillows next to my thighs, you pick up your laptop and lay down alongside me. I let out a faint, involuntary whine (which you record, to my irritation) as you kick your feet up onto my chest. Crossed at the ankle, sloses slowly, teasing wiggling, your feet completely fill my sight. I can feel my hard-on throb with desire at the sight.
It's impossible for me to track time as you keep me trapped there, helplessly staring at your soft, wiggling soles with unrestrained lust as you go about your business. Occasionally you laugh or make some comment, clearly absorbed with whatever you're doing online. Sometimes your feet change position; they uncross at the ankles and you bend your knees, resting your soles flat on my chest and teasing me with your wiggling toes, or they rest side by side, heels together, arches stretched forward in that high-heel position you know I love, toes wiggling. Now and then I can't help but make some sort of sound; each and every time, though, I see you stop to mark it down.
I can't tell how long as passed when finally you seem to notice me again, feet wiggling a final time. You tell me that it's already been over an hour, and that you're just checking to see that I'm okay. Glancing over at my cock, you give it a few quick, light, teasing taps up and down it's length with your fingertips. Again I involuntarily moan, and you jot another line down on the pushment sheet. Feet wiggling, a smile of control that makes me want to scream on your lips, fingers tapping slowly up and down the length of my aching cock, you ask me if I'm ready to make a deal. Of course, I nod.
You offer me a choice: you'll wrap up what you're doing on the internet and move on to something else in just an hour. If I'd like, though, you'll give me a five minute window of time. During this time, the only rule is that you promise not to touch my penis at all. If I can calm down before the five minutes are up, you'll stop looking at the internet right away. On the flip side, if I agree and fail, you'll keep reading this manga until you're finished with it; you're not sure how long it'll take, but it'll definitely be more than two hours.
The choice is bad on both ends, and you keep teasing my cock while I consider it to make things even harder. Finally, I nod. I've felt myself getting nearly soft a couple times, just from gravity; I'm fairly confident that with some concentration I can go soft in five minutes. Smiling triumphantly in advance, you glance down at the laptop and open the clock window. Just as the minute turns, in a sing-song voice, you tell me to begin.
Immediately, I close my eyes and try to focus on something else. I do my best to forget the position that I'm in, how infuriatingly helpless I am, how much you're driving me crazy and how annoying my body's natural response to that is. Little by little, I can feel the blood start to drain, my member slowly losing it's stiffness bit by tiny bit. I can hear you teasing me, but I've blocked it out. I'm certain that in just another minute, I'll be soft.
Then, you do something that I hate myself for not thinking of. I can feel your feet press flat against my chest, feel the bed shake as you slide your butt forward just a bit alongside me. A moment later those soft, irresistable soles slide over my chest, lift up for a moment and settle on my face. My eyes spring open, vision blocked by the warm, fleshy balls of your feet. I try to shake my head, but the feet follow my face effortlessly. I moan a string of protests, and you inform me that each one will count as it's out sound.
The effect on my cock is instant. I'm hard all over again, squirming in desperate horniness as you lovingly, teasingly stroke your soft soles up and down my face. Staying silent, I begin to twist and turn on the bed, doing anything I can to pull my face away from your feet. Giggling, you flawlessly match my movements, keeping your feet pressed to me no matter how I struggle. I'm now blushing, overwhelmed with frustration and irritation at being played, knowing that you made me agree to something that you never intended to give me a chance of winning. Before I know it I hear your voice again, informing me that time is up.
Though there's absolutely no need to use your hands, you do so anyway, taking hold of my obviously erect cock and giving it a teasing, soft squeeze. Sighing, you shrug your shoulders and tell me not to worry, that you'll do your best to finish the manga as fast as you can. It takes all my willpower to keep quiet as you go back to your laptop, wiggling your feet playfully against my face. I make a tiny sound to get your attention, squirming forward just a bit and then back, reminding you to remove your feet before you go back to your web-browsing.
You do, but just for a moment, smiling down at me with a look as falsely innocent as it is smug and domineering. After marking off another sound in my punishment box, you tell me that you're more comfortable like this, so I'll just have to deal with it for the rest of the time. Also, you go on to inform me, from now on I'm not allowed to struggle without permission either. Each struggle will be counted as a sound. The sudden and unreasonable added rule turns my face red, and I barely manage to repress a grunt of protest, fixing you with eyes that would have been sharp and threatening if they weren't so obviously filled with lust and need. Holding up one hand and giving me a teasing four-finger wave, you place your feet snuggly back against my face and begin reading.
What followed was beyond my ability to imagine. Though I'd intimated fantasies of just such a scenario in the past, I'm utterly unprepared for the cruel reality of such a situation. Your feet never stopped moving for very long; at any given time your soles were flexing or your toes wiggling or your ankle twitching the foot up and down, rhythmically in place. Sometimes you'd resume crossing your ankles, the outter edges of your feet resting along my face, your wiggling toes occasionally brushing over my cheekbones. Other times, you'd alternate between feet, bending one back just a bit at the ankle and then relaxing it, patting one side of my face with your sole, then the other, in rapid procession.
Worst and most maddeningly exciting of all, though, was feeling you rub them slowly up and down in place. The feeling of your soft skin against my helpless face was driving me wild, but any little bit of friction just compounded it. Every time that I could feel my hard-on losing it's edge, weakening slightly from overuse, you'd begin gently, softly, teasingly moving your feet up and down my face, the skin of your soles and arches and pads and toes delicately, lightly brushing the over my skin and whipping me into a frenzy. Feeling the feet I normally love so much utterly dominate and control me, hating them as much as I loved them, was driving me out of my mind.
When you're done, you tease my face with a quick rub and flex one final time before removing your feet. Looking down at me, that same playful and cruel look on your face, you inform me that I should be thankful that you're such a fast reader; it only took you two hours and ten minutes to finish your series. I glare at you, torn between keeping quiet or risking further punishment to let you know just how insufferable you're being. Your look, though, tells me that you know exactly how insufferable you're being, and that you'll only be getting worse.
Finally, your attention shifts to my cock. You begin to toy with the tip, which has a film of precum on it now, rolling the rubbery head between your fingertips slowly. The sensation is pure torture at this point, filling me with a pleasure that only increases my desire for more. You switch to simply rubbing that "sweet spot" right at the bottom of my tip, where the soft and fleshy skin of the shaft meets the tight and rubbery head. One teasing, slow stroke of your thumb by one, you cause my frustration to build up beyond imagining. I can't help but wiggle and moan a little bit as you unyieldingly caress that most terrible achiles heel, your eyes darting back and forth from my desperate face to the red member between your fingers.
When you finally stop, fixing your sultry and controlling look on me as you lick your fingertips, you say that I'm making you horny. You mark down the squirming and moaning I just did, then give that look that tells me you're ready. I know that you're definitely not going to let me off the hook yet, but think that maybe you'll be feeling more amicable after you've cum yourself. Even as you're busy driving me crazy, I can see your own need. The hope that you'll relent to the desire to feel my cock as you please yourself is all I've got. When you stradle me, though I don't show it, that hope swells up.
You don't slide yourself down onto my waiting and very, very eager cock, though. Giving me a coy smile, you slide your lips over the tip several times, finally sitting in place over my penis. My shaft is pressed against my pelvis, tip pointed up towards me, the bottom pressed between your wet, slick lips. Slowly, you begin to grind. Eyes closing, sweet and seductive little moans of pleasure escaping from your intollerably sexy, full, soft lips, you rock back and forth, rubbing your sex up and down just the shaft of my member.
Again, it takes everything I have and then some to keep from protesting. For minutes you continue this slow, teasing grind, the friction taking me closer bit by tiny, tiny bit, the lack of stimulation to my head making it difficult and frustrating. When you stop, there's a dangerous look in your half-lidded eyes. You lift yourself off of my crotch and crawl over me, stopping with your breasts hanging down and pressing against my chest, your face right infront of mine.
Once again, you give me a choice. You can sit on my chest and get yourself off with your fingers while I watch, or I can use my mouth to get you off. If I agree to the latter, there are two rules: I can't say a single word the entire time, for one. If I do, the deal is off and you'll punish me severely. Secondly, I can't stop, no matter what, until you say. Stopping early will result in additional punishment as well.
You do note, though, that if I do a really good job of satisfying you, you'll give me a reward. The thought of eating you out right now makes me even harder, as much as I hate that I don't have a choice. I know that watching you finger yourself on my chest will be just as bad; even worse, I know that you'll have a free hand in range to torment me the whole while. For the second time, backed into your trap, I nod.
When you remove the gag, you immediately place a finger against my lips to remind me that silence is one of the conditions. I nod, fighting back the urge to threaten and promise and do whatever it takes to make you stop this before it goes any further, not wanting to lose my one chance so soon. From experience, I know I've got a much better chance of convincing you /after/ you've climaxed; furthermore, speaking right now will earn me that gag back too fast to do any good.
Smiling down and crawling even further up by body, I can feel your knees press into the pillow on either side of my head, see your dripping sex lifted up right above me. You dig your feet in beneath my shoulders and lower yourself down. Soon, my head is trapped between your hot, soft, silky thighs. My face is pinned just below your sex, so close I can feel the moisture and heat. Asking me if I'm ready, glancing down between your legs at me with a look of triumph that raises my blood pressure to dangerous levels, you grind your pussy down against my trapped face.
For the next ten minutes, there's absolutely nothing I can do but use my tongue and lips to get you off, staring up at the look of ecstacy on your face as I do, listening to you moan as you take your pleasure with me. Worst of all, your pussy is pressed so tightly to my lips that it forms a complete seal, as if glued to my face. Every breath I take is through my nose, pressed into your muff, filling my world with the scent of your wet sex. Just as before, though the entire activity offers me no pleasure, some twisted instinct in my body grows unbearable excited by my helplessness. Being forced to get you off like this is driving me mad with two kinds of frustration - regular and sexual - at the same time.
After what seems like a lifetime, I can feel your body tense up, hear you moan and taste a sudden surge of your juices in my mouth. You pant for a little bit and I give my tongue a break, trying to close my mouth. With you sitting on me it's impossible; the best I can do is rest my parted lips against those of your sex, letting each drop of residual girl cum flow unobstructed onto my tongue. I wait patiently for you to move, eyes fixed on your face. When you finally meet them, there's a cruel look, and you wiggle the slightest bit in place.
Rather then lift yourself up, you twist around and reach back over my torso. I can feel your hand grab my cock, give a low, angry and frustrated moan into your pussy as you begin to play with it again. Laughing, you turn back forward to face me and waggle your finger, telling me that that sound will cost me double. Restraining myself, I do my best to remain patient. As soon as you move, before the post-orgasmic glow fades, I can explain to you that this really isn't the time. Doing something like this without preparation doesn't work; this is crazy, it's wrong. Unfortunately, you don't move.
The look in your eye tells me that I'm not going to like what you say next; true to my guess, I don't. You ask me if I heard you say "stop". Again, I let out a long and irate moan, seeing where you're going with this. I try to shake my head no, but your thighs hold me fast. Going on, you remind me that the deal was that I would absolutely not stop until you told me too, no matter what; assuming that I only had to bring you to one orgasm was stupid. Smiling with that dreaded look of false innocence, though, you inform me that you're willing to give me one more chance.
If I start again and keep going, no matter what, until I hear you say stop, you'll overlook this one mistake. If I don't, though, I'll receive the punishment for breaking our deal. There is no answer for me to give but one, so I close my eyes and open my tired jaw. Once again I resume sucking at the soft, slick sex irremovably trapped over my mouth, sucking and lapping and doing everything I can to get you that second orgasm, the third; I work feverishly, feeling a renewed surge of humiliated frustration as I do. Immediately you resume moaning, hips gyrating to grind my face, your finger sliding down past my nose to join in, stroking yourself as I continue to lavish attention upon the more tender parts of your pussy.
Soon you have your second orgasm, but there is no command given to stop. My tongue and jaw are both exhausted, and it takes everything I can to keep going. I can't smell or taste anything but your pussy; it almost seems impossible to imagine anything else. Finally, your body bucks again and your knees go weak; at last satisfied, you roll off to the side and give me the first breath of fresh air I've had in twenty minutes.
For a while you bask in that post orgasmic glow, breathing heavily, eyes closed. I keep my head facing you, just waiting for your eyes to open, waiting for that look of gentle satisfaction that would give me my chance. When your eyes finally open, it's there; I can see in them the beaming, warm look of love you normall give me after sex. I push aside my feelings and give you a loving smile in return.
In a soft, calm, seductive voice, I tell you how much I need you right now, swear that I've learned my lesson. You continue catching your breath, not stopping me, and I continue on, telling you how amazing you are at getting me excited, begging you relief. As you listen, giving no response with either words or expression, I start to grow even more desperate. I promise that I'll let you finish this some other day, no matter how much I don't want to, if you'll let me go today.
After another brief pause, you ask me if I really, really promise, and if I'd make it three times. I nod and smile and swear that I do, as much as agreeing to three more sessions of this madness to end one sucked. I figure, at least, that if I'm prepared and it's done with my consent, it should be much, much more bearable. You warn me that you won't go any easier on me those times, but I agree anyway. Right here, right now, it had to end.
Sitting straight, you pick the gag back up, relishing the look of confusion on my face. Before I can ask you what you're doing, the ball has been shoved back in place. While I whine in protest, you pick up the punishment sheet and began drawing way, way too many hash lines on it, jotting down more than twenty from that brief conversation alone.
Smiling sweetly, you pat me on the cheek and reassure me that you will let me go today, just as you promised; on my end of the bargain, like it or not, I have to accept this very treatment another day. My head reels with the foul play, and I give you a look halfway between threatening and begging. You remind me that I promised and that you'd be extremely disappointed in me if I went back on the deal, however crooked it was. As much as the knowledge that I'd stupidly quadrupled my torment filled me with humiliation and rage, there was know way I'd risk disappointing you. Our sexual promises were iron-clad; once again, you'd trapped me.
Changing the topic, you inform me that since I didn't stop until you'd gotten off, you were going to give me a reward. I knew better than to get too hopeful, but you assured me that I'd be happy when I heard it. Crawling over to the bed's side and standing up on the floor, you inform me that by winning the last challenge I'd earned a break. You'd go take a shower, eat some breakfast, maybe see what was on TV. In the meantime, I could rest up.
For the first time all morning, I breath a sigh of genuine relief. Even staring at your irresistable naked body, I can feel my aching hard-on cool down just a bit as a result. You grab your robe, smiling sweetly and waving goodbye as you open the door. Suddenly, though, a look of concern crosses your face. You walk back over to your nightstand and find something, circling back around to stand next to the side of the bed where I'm tied, smiling down at me. Something is hidden behind your back, and a nervous feeling builds up inside my chest.
You grab the sheets and throw them over my face; for all intents and purposes, I'm blinded. A moment later, though, you make your intent known. I can feel you touching my slowly limping member, can feel something hard and smooth and just a bit cold pressed again the underside of my head, right over that most unbearable sweet spot, where every stimulation created a deeper and deeper longing for more, egged me on and drew precum out while not ever getting me close to orgasm. I let out a loud and irritated noise; this was bullshit and we both knew it.
I can feel a broad, loose band tighten around my cock, pinning the vibrator in place against that sweet spot. You pull the sheets aside just a few seconds after finishing the cruel rig, punishment sheet already in hand. In a mockingly concerned tone of voice, you warn me that I was getting close to the "Grand Prize" of the punishment page, and really needed to be more careful if I wanted to avoid it. Though I don't like the sounds of it, I push that aside and fix you with an accusing glare, telling you that you're going too far. You smile and shake your head.
After tutting me a few times, you explain that the break is my reward for using my mouth so well, but the vibrator was my punishment for breaking our deal and speaking at the end, and that she'd already warned me about that. I give you one final pleading look as you turn it on, a low and weak vibration instantly making me rock hard all over again. A look of agoningly irritating dominance in your eyes and in a cruelly casually tone of voice, you explain that this is the very vibrator that I've made you edge with so many times, strong enough to keep exciting you but too weak to finish the job. Reassuring me that the battery will probably wear off before my break is over, jotting a line on the pad as I give one final, angry moan, you leave the room.
Free of the punishment pad, I begin to squirm like crazy; somehow, no matter what, I've got to break out. Whatever's gotten into you, it's too much. As exciteing as whole sub thing is, I hate it. I can't stand it, I derive absolutely no pleasure from it. Being bound and teased and completely at your mercy is driving me out of my mind in a hurry, and I don't enjoy it one tiny bit. Unfortunately, though, my body does. A lot. Even now, without you in the room to make it worse, the combination of that loathesome, weak, teasing vibrator and my own helplessness keep me excited while I fight against my minds and my libido for freedom from your little "Sunday Morning Surprise".
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The battery on the vibrator had begun to die down; how long it'd been I can't say, but long enough that my erection finally, slowly, begins to die down. My own struggling had ended long before; you've learned how to get the bonds on securely, and I've got no leverage. I'm in no shape for prolonged exhertion, even with the stakes as high as they are. Resigned to languish in that irritating, fading forced pleasure, I did my best to rest and keep myself distracted. So hard was I focusing on not thinking about the vibrator that I didn't even notice when you came in immediately.
You look refreshed as you inform me that it's been a couple of hours; by now, it's well past noon. Taking off your bathrobe and sitting back down on the side of the bed, you ask me if I had a nice rest. My eyes scream "what do you think", and you smile and say that you're glad I did, knowing full well that I didn't A moment later your attention turns to my cock, hanging at half mast. You remove the vibratrator and begin to play with it.
By now, mercifully, my cock just can't go up anymore. My biology is telling me that I need to cool it on the erection. Nonetheless, you diligently toy with it for several more minutes, keeping it stimulated to the very end, when it lays flacid and shrunken in your hand. Letting go and turning your attention to me, assuming that after all this time my cock needs some rest, you ask me what I'd like to do next.
My eyes tell you that I'd like to be let go next, but you pretend not to see it. Instead, you tell me that waking up so early to prepare my little surprise, then waited up; combined with all those orgasms I brought you to earlier, you really feel like you could use a nap. I shake my head and beg once again; I know what you're planning and I can't stand the idea. In response, you simply jot down two more hashmarks, making a comment about how there were only eight left to go until I "really got it". Freezing up, I resolved to do my best not to "get it", but at the same time kept my pleading gaze on you. Enough was enough.
Grabbing and fluffing up a pillow, you place it down next to mine, saddling up next to me. You then ask if I've learned my lesson yet, if I promise to not go so overboard with all the teasing and tickling. I remain still for a moment, afraid of earning another mark, when you laugh and give me permission to answer; I nod assent instantly. Smiling, you place a few soft kisses on my cheek and neck, re-stating that I'd better not forget when this was all over. Giving me an uneccessary warning that I'd better not wake you up, you siddle up to me and wrap your arms around me, going to sleep.
The nature of the embrace, though, was incredibly annoying in it's own right, and you knew it. Your chest was too high; your arms wrapped around my shoulders, burrying my face in your chest. Turned on my side, the lower boob was pressed into my face, it's soft and silky-smooth form conforming to almost every curve, nipple centered right on my nose. I could breathe, but it was not easy; there was almost not a single square inch of my face that did not have warm, crazy-soft boob pressed to it. The upper boob rested heavily on my cheek, a soft and constant weight.
Sighing sleepily, you tell me how good it feels to rest your boobs on me. You ask if I'll promise to let you rest them on me any time you want, no matter what, and I know that I have to agree. Giving a cute and satisfied sound, you wish me goodnight once again. Your upper leg lifts, stretching across mine, your shin touching my currently limp member. Comfortably resting your huge, heavy breasts on my head, you close your eyes and begin to breathe softly. I didn't really believe you would, but somehow, you fall asleep...all without letting go even a bit.
For nearly fifteen minutes I squirmed the tiniest bit, trying to free my head from your soft and massive chest. It was getting hot, and your breasts we sweating; soon they were slick and sticky, though your recent shower left them smelling an inoffensive salty, fleshy smell. Eventually, I managed to free my face up a tiny bit without waking you. Unfortunately, this only made things worst. My face was pressed against your chest, nose right to your sternum, trapped in your cleavage. Your breasts held my face even more completely now, covering every last square inch from my forehead to my chin. They were becoming much too hot, much too fast...but nothing I could do would remove them.
I wondered if you knew how uncomfortable you'd be making me before you went to sleep, wondered if this wasn't some sort of additional revenge for my constant teasing about your breast size. Though I mocked them, I did love your breasts; in particular, I love playing with them, loved to tease and torment their hyper-soft and pliable nipples. I didn't enjoy being trapped inside of them; or rather, I didn't want to, but somehow couldn't stop myself from feeling slightly excited about it. Being trapped in general just got me off against my will, but being trapped against your sweating, hot, smothering breasts was sending electric shocks between my legs.
I suppressed a groan of misserable frustration as I remembered you teasing me about exactly this, threatening to tie me up and rest your boobs on me, and that there'd be nothing I could do. Hearing that voice in my head, seeing that look in my mind's eye, it all compounded the frustration worse and worse. In reality, hearing you threaten to dom me always woke up a sort of spiteful, counter-dominance. I hated and loved and hated and loved the spark of arrousal that those comments would trigger, but felt an accompanying and very real annoyance at them. At those times, the thought of you just doing what you want to me, talking about teasing me or "making" me do anything, I'd just make some comment about not letting you and imagine myself on top in my mind. Right now, I possessed no imagination strong enough to reverse our roles. You were, in fact, resting your boobs on me as much as you wanted and I was, in fact, unable to stop you.
Mercifully, stewing in irritation and excitement mired together in such a potent mix that I couldn't tell where one stopped and the other began, I also fell asleep. I didn't know how long it was for, though; it only felt a minute. It was a deep, dreamless, rejuvinative sleep, the combination of a long morning's excitement and the fading aftereffects of the sleeping pills I had taken late the night before. When I did wake up, whatever I had dreamt, I was already hard.
You'd noticed, in fact, because you had woken up at some point before me. I was once more on my back, my own weight pinning my tied arms. Kneeling at my side, fingers toying with my erection, you noticed me stir and turned to face me, wishing me goodmorning once again. By the look of the windows, though, it was late afternoon or early evening. Pre-empting me, you inform me that it was a bit past four now. Giving my cock a final, teasing flick, you begin untying my legs.
Though I feel a momentary surge of hope, you explain that this is just a quick break. I bite down on the gag as you explain that you're going to untie me, let me go use the bathroom and grab something to eat, stretch out for just a little bit. An extremely stern, serious look in your eye, tone of voice sharp and level, you remind me that you'll be extremely angry with me for a long, long time if I did something as cheap as used this chance to escape. I nod with understanding. A moment later you finish releasing my legs and then, nudging me to roll on my side, my arms.
I take the opportunity to stretch out, letting the blood return to my body and standing up for the first time that day. While I take out my own gag, you explain that I'm still not allowed to speak without permission. Though my look shows how annoyed I am with the restriction, I place the gag down on the nightstand without complaint and walk out to the bathroom. As I'm about to leave, that same no-nonsense look of warning on your face, you also remind me that since this is a time out, I'm not allowed to touch myself. I had thought of that, in fact, and had been hoping you'd forget and give me a legal way out. Cursing silently at the catch, I left you in the room.
Never in a million years would I dream to violate the sanctity of our sex games, but the temptation to do so was maddening. I relieved myself, then hopped into the shower. As much as I wanted to milk it, my sense of obligation to you made me hurry it up, all the while that same internal war waging itself. The thought of letting you tie me back up again now that I'd been let go, no matter what obligation I had to do so, was complete madness. I'd had enough - in fact, I'd had much, much, much /more/ than enough - of being dommed.
The combination of medications and sexual teasing had made me forget my appetite; a bowl of cereal was enough to settle me for now. Taking a deep breath, walking down the hall naked, I headed back to our room. My mind raced with every step, plans and schemes working through my head. It was a short, quick walk, but by the time I'd reached the end I'd resolved on a course of action.
"No," you told me, that serious look back on your face, at the very moment I walked through the door. I stared in confusion for a moment, looking your naked body up and down. Your arms were crossed, chest resting gloriously atop the linked forearms, hips cocked just slightly. Before I could ask what you meant, you told me that whatever deal I'd thought up, the answer would be "No," and pointed down at the bed. Instead, I walked up to you, took you by the shoulders, and kissed you.
It was a long, passionate kiss, and you eventually returned my embrace. When our lips parted our eyes opened and met, the look of soft and caring love that I had so longed for in your eyes. I pressed against you, pushed my cock in between your legs. You were already growing wet, and I capitlized on this, grinding and lubricating myself somewhat. Every time you opened your mouth to talk, I met it with my own lips. Holding you close, chest to chest and sex to sex, I fell towards the bed. Rolling onto my back, lowering my hands to your hips, I prepared to finish the night on a good note with some honest, clean, sex. I couldn't remember ever wanting kink-free, simple, blissful, basic penis-in-vagina sex so badly in my life.
Inches from victory, though, my "sweep you off your feet" plan backfired. Though blushing and looking as if you really wanted it, you fixed me with that stern and reproachful look again. Smiling nervously, I asked "Please, love?" Picking up your pad, you responded by drawing another line in it. Shoulders falling, I knew that you'd made up your mind. It was clear that you wanted sex, extremely so. All the same, I couldn't know how strong your determination was. You'd even deny yourself, for now, to see this through.
My mind screaming at me the whole while, I slowly tood back up and turned my back to you. You were quick and profession as you re-tied my wrists, the binds practiced and tight but not chafing. I sat down on the side of the bed and lifted my legs onto it, laying back down as I'd woken that morning, trapped in bondage. It didn't take you but a few seconds to re-cuff my ankles and tie the middle piece to a rope that was fixed to the boxspring, keeping me stretched out. By then, my now-recovered cock had found it's way back to half-erect.
Laying down alongside me, toying with my cock a bit, you informed me that if I was in the last stretch. I had four hash marks to go until the big punishment, and if I played my cards right, you said, I'd be free and fucking you by eight. Swallow, taking in a deep breath, and strangely re-invigorated, I nodded my aggrement. Smiling sweetly, rewarding me with one last, loving kiss, you placed the gag back into my mouth. What I hoped would be the final few hours began.
It seemed, though, that I'd been careless in taking things so easy just because the end was in sight. The moment the gag was in and my bondage once again complete, that smug look of absolute dominance was back. I managed not to struggle or make any sound, but a sudden wave of furious regret and embarassment washed over me. As much of a show of being upset with me as you might have put on, a few good sexings and some sweet loving later and everything would have been fine. While I by no means relished the idea of violating one of our sacred agreements, the knowledge that I'd let myself be fooled and trapped once again hit me like a ton of bricks. As I'd expected, you told me that violating my break would cost me.
Wasting no time, you straddled me and began grinding your wet sex, ready once more for satisfaction, against my groin. It was no time before I'd risen to the challenge, my cock standing full mast and ready itself. This time, though, and to my great surprise, you did not pin it between my body and your sex nor grind it teasingly. A hand reached down to grasp it gently, and the hot, slick lips of you sex began to lower down onto it. Before I knew it, one blisfull, tight, wet, hot, and incredible thrust later, I was finally inside of you.
Lifting yourself with those strong, soft-yet-firm thighs I love so much, you began to very slowly, very delicately ride me. Each time you lifted only a few inches, settling back down slowly. The sensation was wonderful but teasing, pleasurable but inspiring in me a lust for more. Bit by bit, gyrating and grinding against me each time you took me in completely and our crotches met, you picked up the pace. Soon I'd tilted my own head back, breathing heavily through my nose and doing my very best not to make any sound in the process. Meanwhile, in teasing, two-inch thrusts, you continued to ride me.
I had no idea where you were going, but I was sure this was it. You'd promised that an orgasm would mean the end of this whole torment, and there was no way I wouldn't cum now. Though it was clear you were trying to make the sex act as unsatisfying as possible, I was just too ready, too sensitive, not to get off. Each tormentuously brief, slow thrust pushed me just a tiny bit closer. I ground back, subtly, doing everything I possibly could without overtly squirming to maximize my friction. Minute by minute ticked by, my breathing becoming heavier, the pressure of a mounting orgasm building behind my cock. I braced myself, ready for the final few pushes that would take me there, bring me exquisite relief and an end to this entire event all at once.
Your moans came first. I heard them sweet and musical, felt your inner walls tighten around my cock. Juices ran down my pole, turning my groin slick, and you slumped forward. It took me just a moment to notice, but you'd stopped riding the moment you came. Panicked, just a few thrusts from the edge, I began bucking underneath you, doing whatever I could to push myself that last, tiny bit. Your thighs tightened on either side of my hips, though, and you put your weight onto me. My pelvis was trapped beneath you, pressed down as far as it would go into the bed, unable to generate even the tiniest, most fleeting split-second of friction. Inside of you, clamped in place by tight, wet, warm muscles, throbbing with frustration and near-orgasmic pleasure, my cock slowly, slooooooowly began to fall backwards from the edge.
The look on your face was a mixture of bliss and triumphant glory. Your smile told me that you knew everything that I was going through, that in fact you had planned it that way. Sitting in place, wiggling the tiniest, most maddening little bit, you informed me that you'd been warming up while I was busy showering and eating. Feigning disappointment and pity, you then told me that if I had just gone about everything a little bit faster, she would have lasted longer and I might have cum. There were no words to describe my feelings about that.
For a long time you remained impaled on my member, catching your breath and beaming smugly down at me, occasionally giving another one of those mind-shatteringly teasing wiggles, causing the barest hint of friction and reminding me just how good the thing that was being denied to me felt. The whole while I tried to keep focused on something else, planned and dreamed of what I'd do when you let me go. Of course, I'd promised not to take retribution for this, and I'd already agreed not to go so crazy with the kinky stuff. All the same, though, there was a lot I could still get away with. I knew how to word things, how to justify and keep things in line. As much as you have learned from me and used that talent against me (more proficiently than I'd expected or liked, at that), it'd still be easy enough to turn the tables when this was all over.
At long last, I felt you lifting off of me. Slowly, agonizingly, wiggling your hips the whole way up, you rose up and slid my tight member out from inside the velvety walls that it wanted nothing more than to feel the rapid and repeated caress of. Finally, muscles clamping tight at the very end, my tortured cock was free of you. Sitting immediately back down on my stomach, smiling deviously, you rested for one final moment before getting off of me.
It seemed that one orgasm had been enough to satisfy you this time, because you immediately went for your laptop. Without thinking, I let out a groan and shook my head. Freezing, placing it down on the bed, you grabbed your pad and made two more lines. Informing me in a teasingly worried tone that I only had two more before she had "no choice" but to give me the worst punishment she'd thought up, you hop back up onto the bed and siddle up alongside me once again. It's time for more internets; early evening means people to chat with, you explain, settling into place and propping your feet up on me. This time, though, you waste no time with the light teasing of keeping them on my chest. Right away they're pressed to my face, rubbing up and down in that way you know I just can't take a few times, wiggled and scrunched and patted vigorously for over a minute.
Even moreso than last time, the torment is past unbearable. Your victory over me has long been complete; now you're running victory laps. There's absolutely nothing I can do but squirm in desperation and fume in boiling indignity at the situation. This time, though, unlike last, you do not seem so aware of my presence, do not pretend to some callous detachment from the suffering you know you're causing. One hand reaches over and takes my cock, kept perpetually hard by my irrepressible hardwired lust for feet and, infuriatingly, at being helpless. Rather than stroke it, you simply open and close your hand over it, over and over again, lifting and lowering one finger at a time. I couldn't think of anything I hated or desired as much as that feeling.
The minutes pass in a warped, stretched procession for me. I'm going out of my mind with lust, weird thoughts creeping into my head. Every now and again, after working me up for a few minutes, you remove your hand from my member and focus on whatever you're looking out or whoever you're talking to, bringing me confused feelings of mixed relief and regret. Periodically, you slide your feet down my face far enough that I can see you through your wiggling toes, a sweet and condescending smile on your face. Others, you move them around much more actively, humming a cheery tune and driving me up the wall by padding your soft soles against my face in time to the rythm.
You tell me that it's all my fault, no matter how much I joke about everything being your fault, that I just have to sit and take my punishment. Sometimes, as you rub your feet maddeningly back and forth, you tauntingly quip that I "it feels really good" and that "this is something need to get used to." The worst, though, is hearing you say "you just have to take it." Those words made me crazier than anything else. They were both a command and an observation, all the more infurating for their double-meaning and unquestionable truth. You tell me to deal with it, no matter how wildly insane it was driving me, and I...just have to take it.
Even without seeing my reaction, you know how well those taunts work. The hours pass like lifetimes for me, and I can feel myself actually crying now. By now, I'm completely gone. It's impossible for me to imagine that there was ever a time when I'd asked for this. Your feet are the most exquitely exciting and excrutiatingly vexxing thing in the entire world. With each soft, tormenting rub against my captive face they excite a primal and unreasoning lust inside of me; at the same time, they fill me with loathing, impotent, idescribable frustration. They're simultaineously heaven and hell, driving me to new heights of excitement even as they gently but inescapably pinned me down in a sticking mire of frustration and grief.
I had no idea just how close I was to my breaking point until you said those words that pushed me over it. Lowering your feet just a bit, your maddeningly fleshy, perfect toes wiggling against my cheekbones, you fix me with a look of feigned indifference and inform me that you just need to finish this last Let's Play. For another fourty minutes I reeled in the indignity and torment of unfulfilled need that you so lovingly kept me in, endured the teasingly light caress of your hand on my helpless and desperate member. I "just took" the infuriating presence of your feet on my face, restraining the raging frenzy that their constant and insufferable twitching and rubbing and flexing and wiggling was keeping me in. I knew I was at my wit's end, but it wasn't until you'd said the words that I truly broke.
"Sorry, but...I think I want to see another Let's Play. You'll /just have to take it/ until I'm done."
Every muscle in my body tensed in recoil. It was getting late; the time was easily past the originally mentioned release time of "eight o'clock". The notion that you planned on keeping me there, silently and motionlessly writhing in a frustration I couldn't describe for one more second became too much. I was crying now, and I let out a long, harsh, grating sound of angry protest. I began to thrash beneath you, and I could tell by a sudden, confused cry that you were surprised. The sudden, violent outburst had succeeding in taking you off-guard. I managed to pull away from those adored and abhored, iressistable and intollerable soles just long enough to see your face. Your look of genuine shock pleased me.
I didn't let up on the thrashing, and you pushed the laptop aside, scrambling over to my head. Though you fumbled with the straps for a bit, it didn't take you long to remove the ballgag. Excitedly, you ask me if I'm alright, your eyes searching mine for some sign of what's wrong. Taking a moment to catch my breath, I tell you that nothing is wrong with me...medically, at least. As you're recovering from the shock, I explain that this has to stop now. It's past fun and games, it's past kinky. It's purely non-consentual torture, a one-sided act that was causing me sexual misery for her pleasure.
A look of irritation on your face, you interrupt me mid-sentence by shoving the ball-gag back into my mouth. After briefly scolding me for throwing such a childish tantrum and worrying you, you go on to explain that what I just described was the whole idea. I'd never hesitated to intimate with you how excited the idea of utterly dominating somebody was, how I lusted to push them into that world of non-consentual torment. Fixing me with a gaze somehow at once reprimanding and teasing, you further explain that the you want me to understand just how impossible that sort of play is in a consentual relationship. As wonderful and erotic as it sounds on paper, it just doesn't work.
Letting your smile soften, you run your hand over my hair and tell me that you think I've learned what you wanted now, and asked if I had. I nodded slowly, still twitching and squirming subconsciously. Giving a satisfied nod, you let out a breath and crawl back over to the laptop. Moments later your feet are once more resting on my face, hand back at and teasingly stroking my cock. In a teasing, mock-offended voice, you tell me that if I understand I'll quiet down and finish my punishment.
"Just take it," you instruct.
I buck a single time at the sudden surge of helplessness those words bring, unable to restrain myself. You give no reaction, already once more engrossed in your walkthrough. Again I'm forced to settle back into that maddening and helpless state of unwanted arrousal. Your feet wiggling and flexing and rubbing against my face more actively than ever quickly pushes me right back to my limits while your hand never seems to leave my involuntary hard-on. This time, though, you begin to tug at it and stroke in earnest. Bit by bit, you build me closer to the edge. It feels amazing, impossibly amazing, pure and perfect. The torment of your feet, given the outlet of sexual stimulation, suddenly becomes enjoyable. I can barely hold back the moans as your hand works me closer and closer.
I grew so lost in pleasure that I forgot the tragic conclusion that inevitably awaited me. Your hand abruptly stops, releasing my cock and zipping back to the keyboard, typing away happily as if it had forgotten all about what it was just doing. In a heartbeat, the shapely and soft and warm and perfect and wonderful touch of your feet on my face reverted back into a teasing, goading nightmare, the excitement they caused me once again going unmet. I could hear you humming happily in time with some vocaloid song, briefly catch a glimpse of you zoned out, eyes on the screen. For all the world, even as you kept me trapped beneath a pair of feet you knew that I could help but be sexually attracted to, it seemed as if you'd really tuned me out.
My mind had gone through the same loop of thoughts an uncountable number of times. First, I'd linger on how much I hated my situation, how desperate I was to get out of it. This brought the realization that I couldn't, and I played through a brief panick. I'd reel and shed a few new tears, unable to wrap my mind around putting up with another second of it, even knowing that I had to. Then, my thoughts would turn to finding some way out again. There had to be one, right? I was going out of my mind, and you were the one driving me right out of it. It simply couldn't go on; you couldn't keep having your way with me for another second. Back to the first step: I hate, hate, hate, hate this!
Mid-way through one of my cycles of coping with the torment, the light at the end of the tunnel appeared. You pulled your feet away, revealing a brightly grinning face. As you sit up, I notice that your laptop is off. I watch as you lean across my legs, your eyes focusing on my erect member for just a moment. Reaching out, you begin to annoyingly, gently tease just the tip, paying plenty of attention to my sweet spots. Without even meeting my pleading gaze, eyes still fixed on the penis you were having so much fun toying mercilessly with, you gave me the bad news.
While you had originally planned to let me loose and have wild sex as soon as you were done with the laptop - as you now were - that was no longer a possibility. Holding up your punishment pad, you tapped the sizeable field of hash marks, explaining that I'd earned every single extra punishment you'd thought up. While the list was long and each one made me cringe, it was the final, last one that chased the blood from my face.
"Since you broke our agreement, you'll just have to go to sleep without coming tonight, hmmf!"
I shook my head, and somehow I think my cock as well. You had on an apologetic smile, informing me that you were really looking forward to having sex when the night was over. Accusingly, you told me that I'd been given every chance and had messed up, reminded me that if I could have restrained myself from that little outburst so close to the end that we'd already be having wild sex. Having already earned all the punishments you'd thought up, I saw no harm in trying. A moment later though, you held up a finger and shh'd me. With some effort, I calmed down.
Tossing the pad aside, you offered me my final deal of the night. I'd be given no time to think about it, and there would be no compromise. From the moment you'd finished speaking, I'd have ten seconds to answer, and the answer would a simple "yes" or a "no". You slide forward a bit, taking my cock once again and resuming your slow, cruel stroking, building me bit by tiny, torturous bit back towards the brink of the orgasm I was so long, long overdue for. Once again your legs stretch out and you rest your feet on my chest, crossed at the ankle. I keep my eyes on yours, but can't help but pulse slightly at the distraction.
Soles wiggling, hand stroking, you spell out the conditions of this last deal. First, after the week-long period of no tickling/teasing/tieing/touching that I had agreed to earlier was over, I'd have to spend an additional month without tickling unless I had permission; this did not extend to bondage and teasing, though. Secondly, for an entire month past the prior arrangement, I'd also not be allowed to touch nor move your feet without permission. Wherever you put them, whether it was up on the table or right next to me in bed or even on my lap when we sat on the couch, I couldn't physically touch them or ask you to move them. Though I dreaded the fun you'd have at my expense with that one, you kept making it worse.
Third, once a week, you reserved the right to place me on orgasm hold. From the moment you told me until either 24 hours had passed or you had given me permission, I would not be allowed to cum. You would gain this priviledge for the full five weeks that the other torments, combined, were to last. Additionally and fourth, each week you would be allowed to give me three sexually-related commands, keeping track of each one as it was given, that I'd have to obey. This, too, would continue for five weeks.
Finally - and this one chased the newly returned colour from my face again - there was the penalty clause. If for any reason, at any time during the next five weeks I violated any of our arrangements, I would be forced to pay the penalty. This consisted of two hours beneath your feet, tied and horny, while you went about online business. Beyond that, for five hours after my penalty, I wouldn't be allowed to come. A casual look on your face, shrugging, you went on to observe that the last part really shouldn't matter, so long as I keep my end of the bargain. I couldn't help but feel a humourless grin tug at the corner of my lip, even gagged, at the obvious irony of the statement. You'd be doing everything in your power to push me into breaking those rules each and every day.
It hit me, though, that you'd stopped talking just then. An eager smile on your face, eyes sparkling, you waited for an answer I had only seconds to provide. Gagged, I was functionally limited to yes-or-no in any case; the problem was, it was a hell of a condition to succumb to for one orgasm. I could disagree now and go to sleep horny as sin. I'd wake up free and we'd have sex, or if not I'd jack off furiously. One week of keeping my hands to myself later I'd be free to do whatever I like to you. And, no matter what I do, /you'll/ be the one who's squirming and begging goes ignored as I take my pleasure out on you.
It'll be /you/ that "just has to take it!"
Still, though, your feet keep rubbing against my face even as the clock runs down, your hand keeps stroking my cock. Sanity and reason were far from the ruling forces in my mind. I watch as you hold a hand up, five fingers spread; feel a chill as you curl in each finger one by one, starting with your thumb. Just as your pointer falls, indicating that I have three seconds left, your soles slide back up along my face, the flesh and soft pads of the balls of your feet obstructing my vision. Another moment passes, the pull, the desperate need to finish surging up within me. I didn't know if there were two seconds left, one, or zero.
Rapidly, desperately, moaning internally in defeat, I nodded.
You removed your feet for another moment, sliding forward and reaching for my gag. A moment later the strap was undone; helping me roll onto my side, you again release my arms. I fall onto my back, arms spread, and catch my breath as you untie my legs again. Finally, once and for good, I'm free. Before I can sit up and reach for you, though, you lift your feet back up and put them on my face. All the while, your hand continues stroking.
Sighing, I reach for your ankles. Just as I grab them, though, you ask me in a questioning voice if I've forgotten my promise so soon. I freeze in place, thinking about it for a moment before the misery of that statement hits me. You'd placed your feet in my face, and I couldn't remove them without permission. The tightness by which you'd have me by the balls for the upcoming five weeks really began to sink in. Once more commensing that maddening wiggling against my face - no longer trapped by bondage of rope and cuff, but just as infuriatingly trapped all the same - you ask me if I'm ready to cum.
I tell you that I am, but I'd really like to cum inside of you. You part your feet for a moment, a sultry and inquisitive look on your face, asking if I was only good for just one orgasm after that. Taking your meaning, I rested my arms alongside my stomach and waited. Soles flexing and squirming up a storm, still driving me wild, your hand picked up it's pace. Already slick with my own precum, it didn't take long until I was on the edge.
When release finally came, my entire body trembled with the paralytically intense surge of long-anticipated, perfect pleasure. I could feel myself spout a much larger load than normal, half of it washing of your hand and the rest splattering against my waist, just between my crotch and my stomach. Giving a final little wiggle against my face, your feet at last disappeared. I watched with glazed eyes through a fog of contentment as you lovingly licked up every last bit of my seed from your hand, then my body. When you were finished, eyes shining and a tiny smile on those impossibly soft, crazy cute lips, you climbed up my body and rested atop me.
Though it'd only been a moment ago that they'd ended, already the memories of my suffering from earlier in the day were fading rapidly. Right now, I was holding you; the you I loved, the you who was an unchallenged expert at making me feel good. You feel warm, and soft, and wonderful against my body. Somehow, even though I've just cum, I can feel myself getting up again.
I ask if you'd like to be tied, teased, or tickled, mostly in jest. You laugh, straddling my chest and kissing me. In answer, you ask if I'm sick of your feet yet. I shake my head, then nod, then explain that while I'll never be sick of the world's sexiest feet, I have in fact had my fill of them for a while. Nodding in satisfaction, you lean in for another kiss. We've not yet broken it when I feel your hand grab my member, once again hard, and guide towards your waiting sex. Our lips part slowly as our bodies join elsewhere, my renewed erection slipping into you inch by blissful inch. Soon, I'm all the way in. My hands lift to take you by the hips, holding you up and aiding in your motions.
When you begin to fuck me this time, it is without restraint or abandon. With each thrust you lift your hips off of me completely, slide back down with a passionate force that rocks us both. Lost in the beauty and ecstatic perfection that is each the other's touch, both of our staminas built up by recent orgasm, we crashed our bodies against eachother in the act of wild, hot, sex for over an hour. My eyes remained open in a blissful daze, taking in your parted lips and lidded eyes, your breasts as they bounced with each movement, the wild halo of your hair and the curves of your body. I want you in every way possible, intensely and uncontrollably. Even when I'm burried in you to my balls, I want more.
As I grind back into the bed and thrust back into you, lost in my need to have you in every way, your eyes remain fixed on the ceiling, your head tilted slightly back. Though I can't say for sure what you're seeing, lost in a bliss that grows with each forceful, bucking thrust of my cock into your tight, loving pussy, I imagine it's just as pure and wonderful as everything else about the pleasure you bring me is. Your moans become more intense; my own slowly catch up, the sounds mixing together to tell the story of our pleasure, a song only the two of us can hear and truly understand. I'm overwhelmed by my love for you even as I hunger endlessly more for the pleasure of your touch.
Just like that, the white-hot pressure at the core of my loins detonates, and I lock up with the pleasure of a second orgasm. You'd come just before that, but I hadn't noticed, drunk on the high of my own sexual enjoyment. Slowly, bit by bit, our bodies slowed down, eventually coming to rest. My cock still inside of you, gradually turning limp, you lay down atop my chest. Without a thought my arms wrap around your back, pulling you as close to me as possible. For a while, we lay in that embrace, panting and breathing and basking in our mutual love and lust.
Eventually, though, the calm sets in. Both of us are spent of sexual need, and a fuzzy, cuddly sort of loving takes it's place. You snuggle up alongside me, and I turn off the lights. It's early yet, but neither of us seem to have any problem with calling it a night there. Satisfied, the day's trials long forgotten, I cuddle you tightly, laying on my side, my arm around your chest. Practically purring, whispering sweet nothings and making tiny sounds of happiness and love, you cuddle me back. You still feel warm, soft, and wonderful against my body.
I tell you I love you more than I'll ever have the words to say. You tell me that you love me too, more than anything else in this or any world. We sigh in unison, say goodnight, and fall asleep in eachothers arms.
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The following day, after we've returned from our respective daily obligations, we spend some time watching TV together, unwinding in the early evening. After some time, coy smile on your face, you put your bare feet firmly on my lap. I feel the stir of excitement between my legs instantly, feel a brief tug of irritation at the agreement that keeps me from removing them or touching them. Making the best of it, I ask your permission to give you a massage. You put on a great show of thinking long and hard on it, before finally shaking your head and answering maybe later. I nod, smiling outwardly and letting out a long, annoyed sigh. It was only the first day in, and already you were determined to break my will.
Unfortunately for you, there was a loophole in our agreement. The very moment you'd removed your feet from my lap I was up. Excited, quaking with barely-restrained sadistic lust, I took you by your hand and lead you to the room. The smile on your face told me that you hadn't gotten it yet, that you felt safe and secure from my worst shenanigans. We undressed and embraced, moving toward the bed. When I sat down, though, I did not pull you with me. Taking you by the wrist, I yanked you down and spread you across my knee. Blushing, you let out one of those adorable, confused "nya"s I love so, so much.
The full realization of what was happening didn't hit you until roughly the same time my hand did, falling across your left ass cheek with a loud and satisfying snap. You let out a sound and kicked your legs a bit, squirming to get off my knee. One hand firmly pressing down across your shoulderblades, my other leg scissoring over yours, I had you trapped over my knee without using a single rope. I let a second spank fall across your gently blushing ass, the colour darkening.
I'd keep spanking you without relenting for almost fifteen minutes, switching cheeks every few strokes. You squirmed and begged and threatened, telling me that I was breaking my promise. I paused only for one moment, giving you a smile as sadistic and cold as the ones you'd been giving me all yesterday. Even without my saying, you realized that I was in no way prohibited from spanking you. Your break over, I resummed swatting your trapped, pale, soft ass relentless, drinking in your broken cries and complaints. I didn't stop, in fact, until my hand was too sore to continue anymore. By then, both sides of your ass were a beautiful, glowing cherry red.
So began the cycle that would last for the next five weeks. Some days would pass quietly, each of keeping to our own and the day ending in some loving, consensual sex. Others, though, were all-out war, particularly those when you or I would be feeling particularly playful. You would catch me off guard somewhere, using one of your three weekly commands to put me in some compromising position or waiting until I was sitting to put your feet up on lap or shoulders, knowing that I couldn't move until you'd removed them, wiggling and flexing and doing your absolute best to get a rise out of me.
In return or pre-emptively, when your commands for the week were up or just to force you to use one, I'd find opportunities to get you as well. Spankings were a common retaliation against the constant foot-teasing. Additionally, I'd reasoned another torment: while our agreement barred me from teasing you, I was free to make you orgasm. Taking this to it's extreme, I'd occasionally pin you and get you off, with any or all of my fingers, my tongue, or a vibrator, forcing you to four or five orgasms. I'd make you scream and beg and promise to quit teasing me before I'd stop. The next day, our games would begin anew.
Just a couple of weeks in, though, you got me. A sitting at the computer and you were in bed on your laptop, both of us engrossed in our own business. Lifting your leg towards me, you rested your foot on my shoulder. Glancing over, my mind elsewhere, I took you by the sole and pushed it aside. A moment later, to the sound of your loud "ha!", I felt my stomach sink with the realization of what I'd just done. Bouncing excitedly from the bed, you ran to the closet and grabbed the bondage gear, unused since the last time.
Moping, I insisted that it didn't count since I wasn't really fully aware that I was touching your foot. Fixing me with a coy, challenging look, you asked if I was really going to go back on my promise. Cornered, I asked if we could do it later. A sparkle in your eye, you told me that you were already using the computer; now would be the perfect time. Undressing, I tried to mentally for the two-hour stretch of frustration in store for me. It was annoying, and terrible, and...I couldn't wait for it to begin. My cock grew hard just from my thinking about it.
Somehow, more than the untennable torment, the memory of how wildly, intensely exciting I'd been that first night kept coming to mind. I knew I'd hate it, knew exactly how terrible it would feel, how desperately I'd want it to end once it had started. Still, though, my body refused to listen to reason. Naked, I let you tie me just as you had last time. I laid compliantly down on the bed, watched with mounting anticipation as you cuffed my ankles and fastened my legs to the boxspring, immobilizing me. My heart raced as you gave me one final, teasing looking before placing your warm, soft soles onto my face.
I hated it as much as I remembered, maybe even more. I hated being unable to touch myself, unable to feel something other than your occasional light, teasing strokes. I hated your silky, torturously erotic soles on of my face. I hated being helpless, unable to do anything about the situation, hated being completely at your mercy. I hated wanting, desperately and completely, to cum, a need that grew with each moment.
Your feet rubbed and flexed and wiggled against my face, whipping me into an intollerable state of inescapable sexual frustration. As always, you teased me all the while, told me that I deserved this. You reminded me that I'd agreed to this, taunted that I must really enjoy it to touch her feet even knowing that I'd have to endure this. Playing with my cock, you insisted that if I didn't really want you to do this, I wouldn't be so hard. And - just like last time - you spoke those words that stung worst of all, the words that annoyed me beyond comprehension and made me throb with wild excitement at the same time.
"You just have to take it."
They set me on edge, and it was clear to me that you knew as much. It was your favourite taunt, and you never missed an opportunity to tell me. I "just had to take" your agonizingly sexy feet, I "just had to take" your insanely teasing hand. I "just had to take" being helpless, writhing in desperate unfulfilled need, while you went about your business like nothing was wrong. I "just had to take" the feeling of sexual excitement that those loathesome words forced onto me each and every time they passed your lips. I "just had to take" the absurd humiliation as each taunt served fuel both my indignity and my lust well beyond my ability to manage.
Then, when the two hours were up, you told me that I was half way done. I'd have to do two more, since I'd both touched /and/ moved your foot. I whined and bucked at the revelation, but you didn't seem to care. I started crying once again, started thrusting my hips. Just like that, armed with nothing but the most ridiculous technicality, you'd turned the end of that hellacious torment right back into it's beginning. Still, though, you were prepared for my reaction this time. You told me to calm down, threatened to make it even worse if I didn't shut up and sit still. You spelled out my options in three words that ignited my sanity into a blazing inferno of indignant rage and made me quiver with sexual delight at the same time.
"Just take it."
Though I cried and squirmed, begged through my gag and bucked occasionally, you would not relent. Your hand continued to tease my erection, focusing in particular on that particularly sweet and maddening torment of rubbing the very tip. Against my face, your soles absently continued their unending cycle of slow, soft friction, the sort that aroused me and frustrated me to and past the limits of sanity with each passing second. All the while, you browsed sites and chatted and listened to songs and read, looking so absorbed in your work that your limbs seemed to be on auto-pilot.
I hated it so much that the words wouldn't come. My hate for that particular torment became caustic, bitter. It was the perfect torture; nothing could shake my mind to it's foundation quite so well as having such a wonderful source of pleasure turned into an instrument of torture. The constant sexual excitement caused by your feet would have been wonderful, but the inability to climax turned that same arrousal into a horrible torment. Being unable to climax when I wanted to so bad made me feel frustrated and helpless. Feeling frustrated and helpless made me feel even more excited, no matter how much I wished it wouldn't. The more aroused I became, the more trapped and annoyed I felt; the more trapped and annoyed I felt, the more aroused I became.
Eighty-five minutes later, you pulled your feet from my face and informed me that I was lucky; you were tired, and wanted to go to bed. I moaned once in response, waiting for you to untie me. While being spared even a second of that torment was a godsend, I had a very hard time considering myself lucky for that when I'd already been forced to endure so much extra torment on a whim in the first place. Even as you released me, though, you reminded me that I was not allowed to cum for five hours now. I knew already, and hearing you say it irritated me to no end, made me feel helpless all over again. That feeling, in turn, made me even more excited.
Naturally, I begged. Ultimately, you gave me a blowjob in exchange for a renewed weeks supply of sex-demands. Tired, you went to bed, warm and soft and clinging to my back. For a long while after, though, I remained awake. I laid still, sweating a bit, utterly confused. My head swam with the fresh memories of that torment, and my cock would not stop aching. Quietly, I stroked myself besides you, lingering over every agonized moment you kept me trapped beneath your soles.
For another week after that, we continued our systematic sexual exploits against the other. Several times in that short while, you nearly made me touch your feet. Each time I was saved by some grace or luck; sweat forming on my brow as you fixed me with that adorable and menacing look and snapped your fingers. Though the relief I felt at not earning myself another one of those insidiously horrible penalties was deep and heartfelt, a surge of primal excitement passed through me each time I came close, disappointment replacing it as I narrowly escaped that unbearable fate.
I had two weeks left when I hit my breaking point. You'd been mercifully distracted for several days, leaving me to my devices and I leaving you to yours. Then, on the third day of the fourth week, for the first time in a long time, I saw that frisky and playful light spark in your eye as you stepped out of the shower. Using your first command of the week, you told me that I had to paint your toenails. A sly grin on your luscious lips, you made sure to remind me that this did not mean that I had permission to touch your feet. Sitting down on the bed, you propped up your feet on my lap, soles pinker, warmer, and softer than ever from the recent shower.
By some strange miracle, I managed to paint your nails properly. Neither did I touch your feet at any time nor do a poor job; your disappointment was fairly evident when I finished my last stroke, a smug grin on my own face, without incident. Not one to be out-smugged, though, you lifted a foot to my chest and pushed back. Before I knew it I was sprawled out on my back, your feet resting comfortably on my chest. Looking every bit the victor, you used a second command to force me to keep my hands still; I was not, you stated, to touch myself until your nails were completely dry.
If it had been one coat...if I'd only had to wait for that one coat to dry, I would have made it. Just before the last spot had dried, though, you grabbed the polish and gave yourself a second coat; when that was dry, a third. All the while, eyes fixed on either those wiggling, irrestistable feet or your taunting face, I thought about doing something. Again and again my mind ran through the actions I could take and the consequences I would face. Each time, it all inevitably came down to that one thing; there was no way I could take the punishment. I'd have to deal with this, for now; another eleven days and everything would be back to normal. Just resist for now. Just...
I could see the initial look of shock in your eye when I grabbed one of your feet, lifting it from my chest. When it passed, a slow and sly grin crept over your face. I met your eyes, shaking my head. You told me that I'd again earned four hours, for touching and moving your foot; I responded by lifting it to my mouth and kissing your big toe. Satisfied that the polish was dry, I placed it into my mouth. You moaned a bit, then ran your over foot teasingly over my cock. Releasing your toe, I told you to get naked.
The coy look you gave me only lasted a moment. Gripping your ankle tightly, I danced my fingers up and down your sole. The reaction was instant; I'd forgotten how much I loved it. As ever, you yanked desperately as the trapped foot, melted in laughter. I grabbed your other foot, too, as you pushed at my chest with it in an attempt to pull free. Securing both tightly, irremovably in the crook of my arm, I unleashed a fury that had been building for a long, long time. Cock raging with joy, my soul soaring with the music of your panicked, uncontrollable laughter, I tore across your soles until you couldn't laugh anymore.
When you'd recovered I muscled myself a blow-job. The feeling of being back in control was impossibly, blissfully grand. After I'd nutted in your mouth, I threw you over the bed and quickly got you tied in a figure-X, one limb to each post. I re-introduced you to the gag, then to a vibrator or two. You cried and begged and struggled like mad, but I was love-drunk on tormenting you. I wanted to bring you to the edge of madness, then push you past it. I wanted to tease, tickle, and torment you sillier than I ever had.
When the night was over, we struck a new deal. All previous agreements were to be null going forward. In the future, I would mind my fetishy shenanigans and try not to push things too far. You, in return, wouldn't keep egging me on so much, always doing those little things you know just drive me wild. The quirky and unending cycle of tease and retaliation had, for the foreseeable future, ended.
No matter how I threatened or bargained, though, you would not relent on one point: I still owed ten hours of penalty. Touching, Moving, Tickling, Tying, Teasing - each was against the rules, and each had meant two hours of aching, frustrated lust. You asserted that since I'd earned these before we'd come to the new deal, they were not included. I counter-asserted that no way uh-uh I'm not doing it. You threatened that you'd get me in my sleep again if I didn't man up and take my lumps, promised that I'd do extra time for putting you through the trouble. Given that you'd already done it once, it was hard to call you on a bluff. Reluctantly, I agreed to serve it in four two and a half hour sessions, spread out over the next month.
When the first day rolled around, you had your hands full getting me to relent. Childishly I ran away, darting and hiding around the house to avoid the punishment. When at last you'd caught me, I switched tactics to seduction, doing my best to sack you as a diversion. Finally, after you'd again resorted to reminding me that it would happen one way or another, I hesitantly relented. Squirming and fuming and hating every second, I spent two more hours beneath your feet in helpless sexual frustration. I fought less next week, and relented with little more than pithy comments the third. You found me naked and waiting the fourth week, even laughing that I'd gotten used to it.
Each time you put me through it was worst than the time before. All the same, though, something disturbing was happening. I dreaded each successive punishment more than the one before it, but also grew impossibly excited and anxious, moreso each time. When I'd finally paid off all four sessions of it, I found myself unusually torn on that day the following week. Knowing that I never had to spend another minute in that exquisite torment filled me with relief like nothing else, but also left a nagging, stinging sense of disappointment.
That night, while you slept, I snuck to the foot of the bed and pressed my face to your hot, motionless soles. I touched myself, quiet and calm as possible, doing my best not to cum. I barely lasted ten minutes; I lacked the will to restrain myself, erupting into my hand while I pretended that my face was trapped against your feet. Washing up, face blushed and head buzzing with every kind of thought, I went to sleep.
Life went on, though every now and again a memory of that most introllerable and intoxicating torment would boil it's way to the surface. I'd shove it aside each time, doing my best to recall just how much I despised it. Each time, though, the memories of suffering were paler, fuzzier; the lasting impression of pure erotic charge, though, was sharper, brighter. Twice more I attempted teasing myself, using your feet, while I slept. It drove me mad to admit it, but I wanted to live through it again.
Not too long after that, there was one night where you were particularly frisky. You were practically begging me to come after you, and I did. Escaping from a bout of tickling, you curled up and insisted that I was mean, even though you'd been basically demanding it. Laughing, I said as much, insisting that you loved it. You denied it, then I re-asserted. We went back and forth for a bit, and you eventually called me a tickle addict, bet me that I couldn't go a single week without tickling.
It had been a good few months since the events above, life and the natural procession of time mostly washing them from both our memories. Still, though, that nagging excitement, that misleading and rose-tinted spectre of that hated, despised, and longed-for torment popped right into my mind. I took the bet, asking what you would wager. Thinking for a moment, you offered to take as much tickling as I could dish out, no complaints, over the course of an entire day if I won. The thought of having you wilfully submit yourself to that filled me with a surge of anticipation; I very nearly made the wise decision to forget all my silly schemes and just win the contest. I loved tickling you into fits of unrestrained madness. I really, really loved it.
That fel impulse would not be ignored, though. I wagered an entire day of bondage and orgasm denial, citing by way of example the one that had started everything nearly four months back. Even as the words left my mouth, I felt a chilling rush of excitement run down my spine. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to feel it again. Memories of raw, unbriddled arrousal and sexual excitement raced through my mind. I remembered that I hated it, but could not remember why. The sub-bug had bitten me hard, and I would be it's prey.
For five days of the week I restrained myself, playing over fantasies of that torment in my head and holding off. Second thoughts gnawed at me like a swarm of wild insects. You didn't make it easy, either; teasing me at every turn, begging to be tickled, constantly leaving subtle but highly inviting openings. I nearly broke down twice on the second day, your wiggling soles always just inside arm's reach, your ribs and armpits always bare, vulnerable, unguarded. The seventh day of the week was on me before I even knew it.
By the time I'd gotten back for the evening, there were less than seven hours remaining to our bet. You seemed to remember that night more keenly than you had the others, and I even went out of my way to taunt you about it. Just a few more hours, I told you with a sadistic grin, and you'd be mine for a whole day of screaming, thrashing, wailing fun. Your nervous eyes and adorable pout were nearly, /nearly/ enough to tempt me into winning. The thought of your frightened face, flushed with the same anxious, ambivalent desire that was driving me on, stirred my sleeping cock to life. I longed to see you naked, bound, and utterly helpless before me; I ached to hear you scream and beg.
My madness was not going to give up so easily, though; even as I practically drooled over a day of remorseless tickling, that wildly erotic forbidden fruit I'd been so meticulously sown the seeds of would not let hold of my imagination. I took the time to play the events over in my memory, walk through the last day I spent bound against my will and utterly at your mercy. I could bring the events back to mind, could look at them objectively and recognize them for what they are. Every last scrap of logic and reason in my mind constructed the torment I was so close to subjecting myself to as madness. It was something that I did not like, something that my body fooled me, /forced/ me to think I did. The truth was, I hated it. I hated it like crazy, and would hate it even more this time.
After nearly a whole night of teasing you about all the things I'd do to you once I'd won, less than an hour to midnight, I moved forward and made playful, fake tickling gestures at you. "Completely by accident" my wiggling fingers went just a bit too far, brushing up and down your soles. You giggled and yanked your foot away, then lit up with a glow of triumph. We launched into an argument about the validity of that tickle; I fought and protested nearly all the way to midnight. When you wouldn't give up your victory, I offered instead to call it a draw. You considered it for a good while.
In the end, you wouldn't relent. I was being a sore loser, you said. You pointed out that our games and bets and dares would become a lot less fun if we didn't follow through with them, win or lose. Begrudgingly, I relented and agreed to take my lumps on a day off next week. Oddly, through the whole thing, I never once had to fake my reluctance to accept the punishment. From the very moment I'd pulled the trigger, I'd begun regretting it.
A week and change later, I found myself in a position that was becoming more and more horrifyingly familiar with each second. Naked, bound arm and leg, gagged, I wiggled nervously in place on the bed. You announced that it was nine fifty in the morning; I had agreed to a full day, so you would continue until either you'd had enough or midnight, whichever came first. Again, I was not permitted to struggle and beg; repeated violation of this agreement would deprive me of my orgasm at the punishment's conclusion. As I watched you settle down alongside my hips, laptop on your thighs, it finally came back to me. My cock already hard and hot, the feeling of utter and complete helplessness finally geling in my brain, the true, overwhelming horror of the situation I'd put myself in surged in waved back from my memory.
You asked if I was ready to start, and I shook my head. I was already sweating, my limbs twitching involuntarily. Up until just a moment ago, the punishment had been dancing through my head as a memory of manic and raging sexual excitement, an irresistable and glorious and unending blitz of arrousal. At the last moment, watching that cruel and smug look settle onto your face, I remembered clearly, though. It was an unstoppable and wild roller-coaster of intense, electric sexual desire and lust that I'd been strapped irremovably into; at no point on the ride, though, would I encounter the stimulation nor release that these things made him so urgently and desperately crave.
Realizing what I had done to myself drove me absolutely insane with self-loathing and groin-splitting surges of futile, tormented frustration. I quivered and whimpered a last, garbled word of regret through my gag as you lifted one foot and settled it on my face, then the other. They sent crashing, surging waves of excitement through my whole being, set my cock ablaze. I knew that until you removed them they would remain there, gentle and maddening, rubbing and flexing and twitching endlessly, until /you/ were ready to remove them. I knew I was helpless, and that too filled me with a powerful, thrilling sort of arrousal.
Just as I'd remembered back when I'd decided to make this world of torment my own again, the combination of being completely at your mercy and having your feet forced upon me was sexually exciting beyond words. Unfortunately, just as I'd remembered at the last moment, much too late to stop it, that very excitement was the thing that made it was so brutally torturous that I'd give anything to escape from it.
I hated it. I hated it, I hated it! Every second of that long, mind-shattering day, I hated it with a furious intensity. I went out of my mind and fought and wept like crazy, but you stuck to your guns. I hated it; you made absolutely sure that I hated it. You made it your job to make sure that I hated it more than I ever hated anything.
When I'd sobbed and suffered through the whole thing again, I was in a very odd state of mind. You seemed to pick up on this, somehow, and took advantage. A mere three hours from the end, broken and more desperate than I'd ever felt my whole life, you made me an offer for release. It was a desperate, insane, proposterously lopsided offer, and I nearly lost my mind just thinking about how wildly, intensely, and furiously I'd regret making it.
In exchange for freedom three hours early, you would be allowed to force me to endure this torment any time you were in the mood for it, any day of any year, for the rest of my life. All that you had to do was ask for it, and I would have - as always with our agreements - no choice but to submit. Even if you were the one bound, even during my most sublime moments of dominance, you could invoke it. There would be no conditions, no limits. Any time you wanted to torture me this way, I would have to compliantly agree. For life.
I screamed into the gag just thinking about it, and you giggled and smiled so smugly that I screamed again. There was no way I could ever accept this. You reminded me that there were still three hours, and asked if I'd be able to take it. You slowly stroked your toes, just barely resting their fleshy pads against my cheeks, up and down my face. I cried and screams. I had never hated the torment than I had now. Three more hours was not possible. Now, it had to end now, and not a second later.
Just before I could agree though, you told me that there was one more condition. My domming days were over. While you did like it, while it did sexually excite her more than a bit, you'd found a new pleasure in being dominant over the last few sessions. It thrilled her, elated her, filled her with a feeling of freedom and clarity that you'd never known. You confessed that lately, being submissive just didn't feel right. It wasn't less sexually exciting, but the problem was that you felt frustrated and annoyed just thinking about how I felt in control, understanding that feeling so well. Somehow, being dominated was just too annoying. You didn't want to be dominated anymore.
The thought of completely handing over the keys smashed me like a ton of bricks. I knew how terrible it felt to desire domination and be forced into the submissive role. It was a hell of it's own, as bad as the physical torments. Even worse, in fact. You could see the thoughts running through my eyes, and you leaned forward to remove the gag, though you didn't hesitate to return her feet to my face, her toes and the pads of her feet continuing to brush my face. This was my last chance.
I explained to her that I was a dom, not a sub. It was the act of controlling that makes me excited, it's something I enjoy too much to measure. I couldn't go on without occasionally feeling that pleasure, that knowledge that you are in my power, that I could do whatever I wanted to you and you would be helpless to stop it. I reminded you that you knew how important that was to me when we'd been in the early stages of our relationship.
You told me that it seemed that, whether or not I knew it, my body liked being a sub. I tried to argue that it wasn't true, but I knew I was lying. I really did hate it! I could never, ever find the words to describe how much I hated it! I hated her feet in my face, I hated not being allowed to cum! I hated knowing that were feeling that same thrill that I felt when I had dominated her! I hated her smug smile, her teasing looks and words! I would literally rather be put in an iron maiden than suffer one minute of it.
At the same time, I explained, my body craved it. I'd rather fight that craving and just go back to being a full time dom. Even as I'm explaining all of this, though, there's a look in your eyes that I can't full describe. It's a hungry look, and you start shaking your head. I finally stop speaking, and this makes you smile. Your feet pat my face excitedly, and you giggle. A jole of indignant frustration runs through me, and my cock twitches with need.
You explain that you might like to be tickled some time, and you may even feel the craving to be dommed again, but that it would be when you want, not when I want. Even in my dominance, I would be submissive, being allowed to tie and tickle you only with permission. You know how much I love it, and you would never deny me that forever, but you've found your true passion in being in control. This drives me crazy; I love you, nothing could ever make me leave you, but I can't stand the thought of being a sub! Anything, I beg, anything else, but I can't be the sub!
My protesting brings a new glow to your eyes, and I feel a sinking in the pit of my stomach. You love my desperation so much. You've come to enjoy the taste of complete control, the way I do. You now know why I always told you that I'd never be happy controlling somebody who enjoyed being controlled. You understand how much happier I'd be to dominate you now, to feed off of your frustration and humiliation, to make you suffer in pleasure. Worst of all, you want it for yourself.
Finally, you reach back for the gag. You dangle it from your fingers, twitching your toes maddeningly against my cheeks. Slowly, you say the words: Any time, for the rest of our life, you can force me to submit to you. I will never be allowed to tie, tickle, restrain, spank, or engage in any act of sexual dominance against you without your permission. You will be in charge, and I will spend the rest of my life your full-time sub. That's the deal. Take it or leave it.
I cried, not in sorrow but in the depths of a frustration that was beyond tolerating. I was throbbing with excitement. The thought of a lifetime of helpless frustration was getting me sexually aroused like mad, even as it boiled my brain. I didn't want to be anyone's sub! I didn't want to be used for somebody else's pleasure. I didn't want somebody to gloat and lord over me and take the pleasure in my suffering that I used to take in theirs! Especially not you, who I've loved dominating so much!
You move your feet again, and I know the ballgag is coming. Three more hours. Maybe this won't be your last attempt to make me agree, but if I can just endure three more hours of this, I'll be free. Everything will go back to normal. I'll make you beg and scream and make you promise to never dom me again at the first chance. I'll torment you more than ever, until you forget the taste of being on top, and then everything will be the way it was, the way it should be. The way it needs to be.
But now, the ballgag is going back into my mouth. Your taking your time, putting it in slowly, giving me an insufferable look of complete victory. You tell me that the next three hours are going to be the worst of my life. You tell me that you'll never take your hand off my cock, that you'll just keep rubbing, slowly, that you'll tease me to the very brink of orgasm over and over again. Your feet will just slide up and down my face, slowly, lovingly, toes twitching all the while. Then, you say those words.
"And you'll just have to take it!"
I agreed to your bargain. As I choked out the words, I felt a conflict of emotions like none other. I couldn't describe it. It was a despair bordering on the abyss, but at the same time an elation like none other. My useless, sex-craved body wanted what my mind could not possibly bare. I don't even get the chance to take it back. You shoved the gag back into my mouth and locked it in, and I start screaming and thrashing with a fury that I've never had before. You sit there and smile sweetly, eyes longing, until I run out of energy, until I'm quiet.
You explained that, as agreed, the session has ended, three hours early. Now, a new session was beginning, just as I had agreed. The look of triumph, of domination, of absolute, sheer bliss on your face nearly killed me on the spot. I screamed again as you put your soles back onto my face, now slick with my own, humiliating tears. You know how to rub them the way that excites me the most, drives me the most insane with lust, and you do just that. I felt your fingers wrap around my cock and begin to stroke.
I moaned, wept and begged through my gag and made as much fuss as I had the energy left to. In the end, I would be forced to suffer through those last three hours anyway, on top of having sabotaged the rest of my days with my most dreaded, hated of sexual torment. I could not reconcile the misery I felt while trapped in that world of unfulfilled, helpless, mind-consuming sexual desire with my actions.
Even worse, you keep teasing me in that beautiful, wicked sing-song voice of yours, telling me what torments you were dreaming up. I would never again have a single orgasm that you didn't permit. Your feet were off limits without your permission, and you'd make sure that I spent as much time in proximity to them as possible. Everything that I loved and sexually craved would become a weapon, meant to turn my private life into a constant ongoing act of sexual torture.
The irony that you had first used this torture to teach me a lesson that doing such a thing was not okay in a consentual relationship was not lost on me. You'd first denied me to make me realize that I was overdoing it, and now you'd be doing it, doing what I used to do to you. Even so, I'd never get the chance to teach you the lesson back. I'd spend the rest of my days, frustrated and sorry, an unwilling sub, bound if not by ropes, eternally by the chains of my unconditional love for you.
"And..." you say, giggling for a moment, "You'll just have to take it."
I feel myself breaking, but I can't do a thing. The torment is already the worst it's ever been, and I'm going nuts. I'm thrashing, I can't even control myself anymore. The lifetime of frustration ahead of me is almost forgotten as I stuggle helplessly. I'm convinced that it can't get any worse. No matter how many times I feel that smooth, silky sensation of your foot sliding up my face, it still excites me just as much. No matter how many times I feel your fingertips lightly and teasingly stimulating my cock, it makes me just as mad with lust.
I hated it! I hated it so purely, so desperately! I despised, reviled, loathed, contempted...
...I...!
I would never be able to stand it. For so long as I lived, against all logic, my body would torture me with it's sick desire to force me through that nightmare over, and over, and over. I'd hate every minute of it...but I'd never, ever stop going back for more. You had won.
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