Sharp ropes bite into my wrists with every involuntary squirm of my body. The stiff back of the chair that my hands are tied behind pushes at my straining biceps. Every muscle in my body is tensed. Aflame with the constant pressure of being kept on the edge of coming.
The harsh glare from the single bulb in your bleak basement casts shadows in 360° with us at the centre. You’re kneeling between my outstretched legs, held in place by the soles of your feet pressed against the spreader bar cuffed to my ankles. Clothed in all black, the light barely dares to accentuate your body but casts my taut, exposed flesh in stark contrast to the dark fabric.
Sweat sheens all over my naked body, matts my chest hair and beads on my brow above eyes that are flitting between meeting your gaze and watching your oiled fingers dance, weave, tickle and grip my thickly veined dick. I can’t choose what’s hotter. Looking into your eyes as you watch my face for each little wince as you graze my frenulum with your thumb, see every furrowed brow as you envelop my entirety with both firm hands, observe the silent, intricate contractions of my mouth as your fingers slide over the deep ridge of my engorged cock-head, or focussing on the action at the base of my twitching torso.
At the back of my very occupied mind, I register that you’re enjoying this. I file away the image of your hidden smile, the corners of your mouth upturned and betraying the domineering look you’ve adopted. I’ll use that secret smile next time I’m craving you to light my own fire. I’ll get off on how much you’re enjoying getting me off. The pleasure is cyclical. Recurring. Infinite.
Although, no matter how much time I spend on myself, how languidly I masturbate to thoughts and memories of you, it won’t compare to this moment. To giving into you completely. To opening myself to the possibility of vulnerable shame - my soft belly on parade and inviting you to run a finger across its quivering surface blazing a trail through the jungle of hair, my breathy moans and gentle whimpers and long-drawn ‘fuck’s - to agreeing to being bound to this chair, unable to free myself from the maddening pleasure mixed with anxiety even if I wanted to, my whole, bare self on display - naked and writhing, hard and tight, sweaty and leaking. Lips bitten. Muscles strained. Toes curled. Every fibre of my being wills me to beg you for a kiss. I yearn to feel your lips crushed against mine, if even just to give me a break from your relentless teasing of my cock. But I know better than that. I know not to ask for my pleasure until I’m invited to. I know what delightful horrors such audacity would bring, and right now, all I want is the sweet relief of my orgasm.
You’ve talked to me throughout this exquisite torture. Whispered teasing suggestions, asked me if I wanted your holes as you massaged mine, you’ve even smeared your own sticky mess across my lips and enquired as to how it tastes… I can manage no more than hurried one-word answers, shaky and breathless.
“Yes. Good. Fuck.”
The veins on your oily hands catch the light and match the glistening of my proud cock, the almost constant bead of pre-come seemingly catching a pinprick of glitter before it breaks under your deliberate fingers. With every stroke of your palms my chest rises, my stomach contracts and my thighs burn. I didn’t think my body could get any tighter but every sinew stretches and aches as you twist your grip around my girth, the hot flesh of my cock emanating through your skin, the pulse of my blood heavy and relentless. You watch my balls rise and the thick shaft that runs along the underside of my dick start to quiver.
“Do you want to come?” You ask, your tone devilishly sweet, as if you didn’t fucking know it’s all I’ve wanted for what now seems like eons.
Your hands slow to a confusing and inexcusable tempo.
“Yes,” I just about manage to say, using all of my will and concentration to hold the rush of pressure at bay.
Your fingers almost come to a rest. I am beside myself with panting anticipation.
“Yes, what?!” You pout theatrically and raise an eyebrow. That image is getting stored, too, and will be used the next time you’re bent over my knee…
You run your clawed fingertips up the length of my twitching cock.
“Fuck. Yes, please. Yes, fucking please. Please, can I fucking come? Fucking please!” Well, that was embarrassing. Add it to the shame pile.
“Good boy. You may.” As you grant me my pleasure, you twist the head of my dick and the base of my shaft in your hands one final time and feel the rush of pressure up my length and press a thumb under my tip.
Every muscle in my body screams with relief as I explode with pleasure. Colours dance in my vision and my head swims as jet after thick jet of hot spunk erupts from my squeezed cock, landing on my already-soaked chest and getting caught in my hair. Chains of come fly in all directions and spatter against the harsh black of your clothing. I can’t seem to stop the growl caught at the back of my throat and it rumbles from me as my body convulses, my legs extended from my large, come-strewn thighs down to my pointed toes. The grin on your face is as wide as it is satisfied as you survey your work. You’ve made a complete mess of me, jizz-soaked and breathless, naked and spent, softening in your now delicate grip. Broken, grateful and wholly yours. I am owned.
