mch5
TMF Expert
- Joined
- Mar 9, 2012
- Messages
- 327
- Points
- 28
Donna looked at him, face tight with disapproval. Her jaw ached from how hard she clenched it, her heart thudding like a warning drum. How had it come to this? The air between them felt thick, suffocating, and she could almost taste the bitterness rising in her throat. “Come on, Perry, untie me. My husband’s waiting.” She didn’t even say his name. Was that subconscious? A refusal to make him part of her life, even now?
Perry knelt beside her. His tone was casual, almost soft. “He wouldn’t mind.” He reached for the bottom button of her red, fluffy shirt and began unfastening it, one at a time, from the bottom up.
Donna struggled to catch his eyes. “Please… tomorrow morning. We’ll find you someone. Big boobs and all, just how you like.” But he didn’t answer. He kept going, stopping just before the shirt opened enough to reveal her bra.
“It’s been a week,” he said flatly.
She exhaled sharply, as if slapped. “So that’s it? Just like that?” She tried to brace herself, to accept what was coming, but it felt wrong. All of it. “Perry, look at me! I’m old. I’m not your type, not in any way!”
He parted the unbuttoned shirt, spreading the fabric aside to reveal the soft, rounded swell of her aged belly, so prominent in her seated position it seemed to lean toward him, exposed and vulnerable. Her skin bore faint stretch lines and a natural looseness, the quiet marks of time and gravity, but it was real, raw, deeply human. Her navel sat slightly low, deep and shadowed, a quiet fold in the soft skin. In that moment, it was still, part of her natural rhythm, just rising and falling with each breath. But to him, it was a promise. That belly, so central, so exposed in her seated posture, held the erotic core of what he longed for. The subtle rises with her breath, the softness, the involuntary flutter just beneath the skin, it was a terrain of unbearable anticipation. Not yet laughing. Not yet lost. But on the edge. “You have big boobs too.” Was it a joke? He didn’t even know. It wasn’t meant to tease.
“It’s the last time I fall asleep near you,” she muttered, half-laughing, but her voice cracked.
“Perry, I’m not in the mood!” But he didn’t stop. He slid to her feet, carefully pulling off her high heels, one by one.
She started breathing faster. This was getting too real. Too fast. Too far. This wasn’t a game. This wasn’t a misunderstanding. “Look at me, damn it! We had a deal! I’m not like them! I can’t take this!”
Perry paused, hands at her ankles. “You know how much I need this.”
He gripped the sheer stockings at her toes and, with both hands, tore them apart, baring her left foot.
She yanked at her knees, trying to tip the stool, but it was bolted to the floor.
He stripped the right foot next, slow and deliberate.
Then he rose, eyes finally meeting hers.
“If you do this, we’re done. Not just the business, Perry, everything. You’ll be on your own, and I won’t cover for you again.” She said it like a verdict, but deep down, she knew he wasn’t going to stop.
“I know... I’m sorry.” His voice cracked as he looked away, avoiding her gaze. Then, without another word, he moved behind the chair she was tied to, as if distancing himself from the guilt, or hiding what he was about to do next.
She started to sob weakly, her breath catching in shallow bursts as she clenched her fists, humiliated by how helpless she felt—not just tied, but cornered in every sense.
And then she heard the whirring buzz of the electric toothbrush, a sound that made her stomach twist with dread.
“No, no, Perry, don’t!” she pleaded, her voice rising into a near-shriek with each step he took toward her feet, panic tearing at the edges of her control, her body tensing as if she could will him to stop with sheer resistance.
And then she felt it, dead center on the arch of her right foot. The vibrating bristles of the toothbrush made contact, firm but teasing, sending a jolt of sensation that made her toes curl and her breath hitch in her throat.
His eyes were locked on her belly, intent, unblinking. He thought he knew what he wanted. Maybe. Or maybe he’d just been circling this for days, unable to think of anything else. The belly, the way it moved… it got into him. He told himself it would be fast, easy, maybe even clean. But deep down, he knew it wouldn’t be. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.
She gasped, her mouth stretched open as if the air alone could erase the invading sensation. She fought—visibly, violently, but it showed in her body, in every tremble and twitch, right where he was watching. She hadn’t giggled, hadn’t broken, but somehow, he had already won.
Without looking away from her belly, Perry started sliding the electric toothbrush over her foot, as if searching for the precise trigger that would shatter her restraint. He moved slowly, deliberately, grazing the arch, the base of the ankle, the soft pads, beneath her toes—methodical, calculating. His mouth hung open, eyes glassy. Every twitch she made, it did something to him. Like a nerve got exposed inside. He couldn’t even explain it to himself.
Donna struggled, thrashing her head from side to side whenever an unbearable spot was touched. Her body, her belly, might betray her with every twitch and flinch, but she clung to a single, desperate line of defense: her dignity. She refused to laugh, to break, to surrender that final scrap of selfhood. Maybe, just maybe, if she could keep her mind guarded, her will intact, she’d still have something he couldn’t defile.
“Fuck! Fuuuuuck!” It was pure agony, every second stretching like a blade drawn across her pride. Maybe it would be easier to let go, to surrender, to just give him what he wanted. But what would that make of her? What would he think of her afterward? And worse, how could she live with herself? The shame would be a brand, burned into her very being. Yes, it was her fault, she supported him, fed his sickness, trusted him, helped him. She had believed in him. Thought she had control. Assumed she was the stronger one. She was so sure, so goddamn sure, that she held the power. And now, here she was: bare as he liked, bound, trembling, clinging to dignity like it was a life raft in a storm she never saw coming.
“Please,” he pleaded, intoxicated by the moment. It was close, almost there, and it felt so achingly good. He wasn’t even sure what he craved more, her struggle? Her imminent collapse? Or was it already happening, right there in her exposed belly, tensing, spasming, muscles clenched in a war against the laughter she was so cruelly denying him? That denial, that resistance, was maddening. He had to break it. He had to draw it out of her, no matter what. He closed his eyes, trembling. “Please, I beg you… let go. Just show me.” And with a slow, reverent shift, he moved to work on her other foot.
She wanted to cry, needed to cry, but couldn’t. Because if she did, the sound might not be sobbing. The trembles might not come from heartbreak. The tears might not be born of fear. No… they would betray her, expose the truth she couldn’t admit: that her defenses were shattering. She had to hold it in. She had to remain solid. But the control was slipping through her fingers with every cruel second. “Please! Please!”
“I… can’t…” he whispered, breathless, his gaze drifting again to the place that consumed him, the soft, defenseless skin of her belly, exposed and trembling. It wasn’t just flesh to him; it was command, obsession, sanctuary. And then, as if possessed, he let the electric toothbrush fall from his grip, landing with a dull thud. His fingers, trembling with need, found her feet. He tickled, frantically, desperately, as if trying to break not just her silence, but her soul.
“Perr-hh-eey!” she screamed, the sound breaking through her final thread of resistance. And then came the laughter, raw, cracked, unwilling. “I… hehe-hate y-hhou…” she gasped, as though every syllable cost her another piece of pride she couldn’t recover.
Perry smiled in relief, not with triumph, nor malice, but as if something feral inside him had finally been fed. A deep, primal need loosened its grip, flooding him with warm, trembling pleasure. And still, he kept going, as if her laughter had only whetted his hunger, not satisfied it.
Donna’s belly shook in waves, no longer still, no longer modest. Her laughter forced it to bulge and ripple like a storm-tossed drumskin, erotic in its exposure. The seated position exaggerated every quake, her belly thrust outward, trembling with each breathless burst, the flesh undulating in perfect sync with her helpless gasps. Her navel, which had once just sat there quietly, now clenched and flinched like a live wire, visible, shaking, too much to ignore. It was the visual rhythm of her surrender, and for Perry, the very epicenter of arousal. Every sound she made was like a slap she didn’t get to throw. Her body moved on its own now. It wasn’t hers anymore, not really. It was over. Her will cracked. The laughter came pouring out, raw and loud, and there was no stopping it now. Her eyes squeezed shut, tears streaming, as she looked at the man she once trusted, now a stranger, a betrayer, but none of it mattered to him. Her pain, her shame, her broken dignity, they didn’t even register. He was gone, lost in the ecstasy of it, a creature of obsession, transfixed by the hypnotic rise and fall of her belly, by the helpless convulsions that fed his twisted need. A machine now, cold and automatic, running on the sound of her laughter. He wasn’t even there anymore. Just that hunger. That sick, echoing want.
He quickly moved away from her feet and knelt beside her again.”Sorry,” he whispered, but it was hollow, automatic, an echo of something once human. And before she could even draw a breath, his hand slid inside her pants, bypassing shame, bypassing permission. He felt the coarse texture of her pubic hair, skimmed the folds of her labia, accidental contact, or so he told himself, but his true aim was deeper still. He reached her inner thigh, warm and tense, where everything seemed to brace itself against what was coming next. This wasn’t mercy. This was escalation. Her torment was far from over.
He tickled, wiggled, pinched, each movement a merciless assault on her control. The sensations came in crashing waves, battering her will, drowning her resistance under their relentless rhythm. Her laughter spilled out, wild and cracked, tangled with panic, despair, and a rawness she couldn’t contain. Her head hung low, hair clinging to her sweaty face, drool glistening over the swell of her cleavage. And then he lay his head on her belly. No reverence, no plan. Just need. His cheek pressed against her skin, hot and slick and shaking. The rise above her navel quivered under him, soft and real. Even her bellybutton seemed to twitch along, like it was in on it, laughing too, only quieter. Each helpless jolt of her belly sent new tremors rippling through him. It wasn’t music. Not really. Just this low, awful rhythm that hit him somewhere he didn’t like to name. Not holy. Just necessary.
It went on for minutes, eternal minutes, as she was reduced to raw breathlessness, her chest heaving, hair drenched, her face streaked with sweat and tears. Her laughter faded to broken little gasps, and each one made her belly jerk, the skin quivering around her bellybutton like it had its own nervous system. Her middle did what it wanted, twitching and jerking like it wasn’t hers to control. And then, finally, he slowed. His fingers pinched rhythmically, tenderly now, slower and slower, as though savoring the last vibrations of his own twisted climax. The ecstasy faded like a dying echo. He let out a long, shuddering breath, sinking back on his heels. It was done.
Gently and slowly he withdrew his hand and stood up. He didn’t look at her, he couldn’t. He avoided her eyes as he untied her.
Donna slowly regained her breath. The tears lingered, hot and silent, streaking down her cheeks long after the tremors stopped. She didn’t wipe them. She let them fall, each one a tiny concession to the wreckage inside her. For a while, she just sat there—breathing, aching, her body still quaking in aftershocks she pretended weren’t real. Then, with the calm of someone shellshocked, she stood and buttoned the lower part of her shirt, each button like a seal over something she could never show. Her voice, when it came, was quiet and flat, like something said at a funeral. “I’ll never forgive you.”
“I know.” He sat slumped in the far corner, knees drawn up, his face buried in his palms as if trying to disappear. His voice cracked, barely audible. “You’re not like the others. You never were.”
She wiped her face, adjusted her clothes, and walked to the door without looking back. The silence behind her was total, broken only by the shallow, ugly sounds of his breath. She paused at the threshold, not out of doubt, not out of kindness, but to let the weight of what just happened settle in the room like smoke. Then, cold as iron: “Tomorrow at 0800 AM, bring the revised contract. They will sign.” She didn’t wait for a reply. She closed the door behind her, and was gone.
The End
Perry knelt beside her. His tone was casual, almost soft. “He wouldn’t mind.” He reached for the bottom button of her red, fluffy shirt and began unfastening it, one at a time, from the bottom up.
Donna struggled to catch his eyes. “Please… tomorrow morning. We’ll find you someone. Big boobs and all, just how you like.” But he didn’t answer. He kept going, stopping just before the shirt opened enough to reveal her bra.
“It’s been a week,” he said flatly.
She exhaled sharply, as if slapped. “So that’s it? Just like that?” She tried to brace herself, to accept what was coming, but it felt wrong. All of it. “Perry, look at me! I’m old. I’m not your type, not in any way!”
He parted the unbuttoned shirt, spreading the fabric aside to reveal the soft, rounded swell of her aged belly, so prominent in her seated position it seemed to lean toward him, exposed and vulnerable. Her skin bore faint stretch lines and a natural looseness, the quiet marks of time and gravity, but it was real, raw, deeply human. Her navel sat slightly low, deep and shadowed, a quiet fold in the soft skin. In that moment, it was still, part of her natural rhythm, just rising and falling with each breath. But to him, it was a promise. That belly, so central, so exposed in her seated posture, held the erotic core of what he longed for. The subtle rises with her breath, the softness, the involuntary flutter just beneath the skin, it was a terrain of unbearable anticipation. Not yet laughing. Not yet lost. But on the edge. “You have big boobs too.” Was it a joke? He didn’t even know. It wasn’t meant to tease.
“It’s the last time I fall asleep near you,” she muttered, half-laughing, but her voice cracked.
“Perry, I’m not in the mood!” But he didn’t stop. He slid to her feet, carefully pulling off her high heels, one by one.
She started breathing faster. This was getting too real. Too fast. Too far. This wasn’t a game. This wasn’t a misunderstanding. “Look at me, damn it! We had a deal! I’m not like them! I can’t take this!”
Perry paused, hands at her ankles. “You know how much I need this.”
He gripped the sheer stockings at her toes and, with both hands, tore them apart, baring her left foot.
She yanked at her knees, trying to tip the stool, but it was bolted to the floor.
He stripped the right foot next, slow and deliberate.
Then he rose, eyes finally meeting hers.
“If you do this, we’re done. Not just the business, Perry, everything. You’ll be on your own, and I won’t cover for you again.” She said it like a verdict, but deep down, she knew he wasn’t going to stop.
“I know... I’m sorry.” His voice cracked as he looked away, avoiding her gaze. Then, without another word, he moved behind the chair she was tied to, as if distancing himself from the guilt, or hiding what he was about to do next.
She started to sob weakly, her breath catching in shallow bursts as she clenched her fists, humiliated by how helpless she felt—not just tied, but cornered in every sense.
And then she heard the whirring buzz of the electric toothbrush, a sound that made her stomach twist with dread.
“No, no, Perry, don’t!” she pleaded, her voice rising into a near-shriek with each step he took toward her feet, panic tearing at the edges of her control, her body tensing as if she could will him to stop with sheer resistance.
And then she felt it, dead center on the arch of her right foot. The vibrating bristles of the toothbrush made contact, firm but teasing, sending a jolt of sensation that made her toes curl and her breath hitch in her throat.
His eyes were locked on her belly, intent, unblinking. He thought he knew what he wanted. Maybe. Or maybe he’d just been circling this for days, unable to think of anything else. The belly, the way it moved… it got into him. He told himself it would be fast, easy, maybe even clean. But deep down, he knew it wouldn’t be. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.
She gasped, her mouth stretched open as if the air alone could erase the invading sensation. She fought—visibly, violently, but it showed in her body, in every tremble and twitch, right where he was watching. She hadn’t giggled, hadn’t broken, but somehow, he had already won.
Without looking away from her belly, Perry started sliding the electric toothbrush over her foot, as if searching for the precise trigger that would shatter her restraint. He moved slowly, deliberately, grazing the arch, the base of the ankle, the soft pads, beneath her toes—methodical, calculating. His mouth hung open, eyes glassy. Every twitch she made, it did something to him. Like a nerve got exposed inside. He couldn’t even explain it to himself.
Donna struggled, thrashing her head from side to side whenever an unbearable spot was touched. Her body, her belly, might betray her with every twitch and flinch, but she clung to a single, desperate line of defense: her dignity. She refused to laugh, to break, to surrender that final scrap of selfhood. Maybe, just maybe, if she could keep her mind guarded, her will intact, she’d still have something he couldn’t defile.
“Fuck! Fuuuuuck!” It was pure agony, every second stretching like a blade drawn across her pride. Maybe it would be easier to let go, to surrender, to just give him what he wanted. But what would that make of her? What would he think of her afterward? And worse, how could she live with herself? The shame would be a brand, burned into her very being. Yes, it was her fault, she supported him, fed his sickness, trusted him, helped him. She had believed in him. Thought she had control. Assumed she was the stronger one. She was so sure, so goddamn sure, that she held the power. And now, here she was: bare as he liked, bound, trembling, clinging to dignity like it was a life raft in a storm she never saw coming.
“Please,” he pleaded, intoxicated by the moment. It was close, almost there, and it felt so achingly good. He wasn’t even sure what he craved more, her struggle? Her imminent collapse? Or was it already happening, right there in her exposed belly, tensing, spasming, muscles clenched in a war against the laughter she was so cruelly denying him? That denial, that resistance, was maddening. He had to break it. He had to draw it out of her, no matter what. He closed his eyes, trembling. “Please, I beg you… let go. Just show me.” And with a slow, reverent shift, he moved to work on her other foot.
She wanted to cry, needed to cry, but couldn’t. Because if she did, the sound might not be sobbing. The trembles might not come from heartbreak. The tears might not be born of fear. No… they would betray her, expose the truth she couldn’t admit: that her defenses were shattering. She had to hold it in. She had to remain solid. But the control was slipping through her fingers with every cruel second. “Please! Please!”
“I… can’t…” he whispered, breathless, his gaze drifting again to the place that consumed him, the soft, defenseless skin of her belly, exposed and trembling. It wasn’t just flesh to him; it was command, obsession, sanctuary. And then, as if possessed, he let the electric toothbrush fall from his grip, landing with a dull thud. His fingers, trembling with need, found her feet. He tickled, frantically, desperately, as if trying to break not just her silence, but her soul.
“Perr-hh-eey!” she screamed, the sound breaking through her final thread of resistance. And then came the laughter, raw, cracked, unwilling. “I… hehe-hate y-hhou…” she gasped, as though every syllable cost her another piece of pride she couldn’t recover.
Perry smiled in relief, not with triumph, nor malice, but as if something feral inside him had finally been fed. A deep, primal need loosened its grip, flooding him with warm, trembling pleasure. And still, he kept going, as if her laughter had only whetted his hunger, not satisfied it.
Donna’s belly shook in waves, no longer still, no longer modest. Her laughter forced it to bulge and ripple like a storm-tossed drumskin, erotic in its exposure. The seated position exaggerated every quake, her belly thrust outward, trembling with each breathless burst, the flesh undulating in perfect sync with her helpless gasps. Her navel, which had once just sat there quietly, now clenched and flinched like a live wire, visible, shaking, too much to ignore. It was the visual rhythm of her surrender, and for Perry, the very epicenter of arousal. Every sound she made was like a slap she didn’t get to throw. Her body moved on its own now. It wasn’t hers anymore, not really. It was over. Her will cracked. The laughter came pouring out, raw and loud, and there was no stopping it now. Her eyes squeezed shut, tears streaming, as she looked at the man she once trusted, now a stranger, a betrayer, but none of it mattered to him. Her pain, her shame, her broken dignity, they didn’t even register. He was gone, lost in the ecstasy of it, a creature of obsession, transfixed by the hypnotic rise and fall of her belly, by the helpless convulsions that fed his twisted need. A machine now, cold and automatic, running on the sound of her laughter. He wasn’t even there anymore. Just that hunger. That sick, echoing want.
He quickly moved away from her feet and knelt beside her again.”Sorry,” he whispered, but it was hollow, automatic, an echo of something once human. And before she could even draw a breath, his hand slid inside her pants, bypassing shame, bypassing permission. He felt the coarse texture of her pubic hair, skimmed the folds of her labia, accidental contact, or so he told himself, but his true aim was deeper still. He reached her inner thigh, warm and tense, where everything seemed to brace itself against what was coming next. This wasn’t mercy. This was escalation. Her torment was far from over.
He tickled, wiggled, pinched, each movement a merciless assault on her control. The sensations came in crashing waves, battering her will, drowning her resistance under their relentless rhythm. Her laughter spilled out, wild and cracked, tangled with panic, despair, and a rawness she couldn’t contain. Her head hung low, hair clinging to her sweaty face, drool glistening over the swell of her cleavage. And then he lay his head on her belly. No reverence, no plan. Just need. His cheek pressed against her skin, hot and slick and shaking. The rise above her navel quivered under him, soft and real. Even her bellybutton seemed to twitch along, like it was in on it, laughing too, only quieter. Each helpless jolt of her belly sent new tremors rippling through him. It wasn’t music. Not really. Just this low, awful rhythm that hit him somewhere he didn’t like to name. Not holy. Just necessary.
It went on for minutes, eternal minutes, as she was reduced to raw breathlessness, her chest heaving, hair drenched, her face streaked with sweat and tears. Her laughter faded to broken little gasps, and each one made her belly jerk, the skin quivering around her bellybutton like it had its own nervous system. Her middle did what it wanted, twitching and jerking like it wasn’t hers to control. And then, finally, he slowed. His fingers pinched rhythmically, tenderly now, slower and slower, as though savoring the last vibrations of his own twisted climax. The ecstasy faded like a dying echo. He let out a long, shuddering breath, sinking back on his heels. It was done.
Gently and slowly he withdrew his hand and stood up. He didn’t look at her, he couldn’t. He avoided her eyes as he untied her.
Donna slowly regained her breath. The tears lingered, hot and silent, streaking down her cheeks long after the tremors stopped. She didn’t wipe them. She let them fall, each one a tiny concession to the wreckage inside her. For a while, she just sat there—breathing, aching, her body still quaking in aftershocks she pretended weren’t real. Then, with the calm of someone shellshocked, she stood and buttoned the lower part of her shirt, each button like a seal over something she could never show. Her voice, when it came, was quiet and flat, like something said at a funeral. “I’ll never forgive you.”
“I know.” He sat slumped in the far corner, knees drawn up, his face buried in his palms as if trying to disappear. His voice cracked, barely audible. “You’re not like the others. You never were.”
She wiped her face, adjusted her clothes, and walked to the door without looking back. The silence behind her was total, broken only by the shallow, ugly sounds of his breath. She paused at the threshold, not out of doubt, not out of kindness, but to let the weight of what just happened settle in the room like smoke. Then, cold as iron: “Tomorrow at 0800 AM, bring the revised contract. They will sign.” She didn’t wait for a reply. She closed the door behind her, and was gone.
The End
Last edited:
