I really should learn not to joke around about things that I’m just not quite certain about at the time.  It may seem like something you wish for at the time in an abstract sense, but it can be extremely intense in reality.  It plants a seed in you that you keep around for later use and it has been known to come back to haunt me a bit in the future on more than one occasion.

“ha ha – wouldn’t it be funny if you…” is a dangerous entry into a charged scene.  Even though it’s a fantasy or even fleeting thought at the time I may mention it, your mind has this ability to grab onto it and take it to the farthest possible extreme.  Sometimes this is good, sometimes it’s a little shocking.

This was the case with the chains.  Today as you walked up to me with the length of chain in your hands, you weren’t smiling.  You weren’t grinning.  You just looked me in the eye and kept my gaze as you got closer.  As I always do when I get nervous, I cracked a joke.  Or three.  Trying to take back control I suppose.  You had no interest in that.

Weeks ago I built a dungeon for us in the garage, but the weather hasn’t been such that we could use it yet.  I’d been joking around recently about the fact that all those chains were getting lonely.  I kept poking at it, because you weren’t biting on the comments.  Then I dropped it because I figured the timing just wasn’t what you wanted (or weather!).

When you get to me, you keep my gaze and take my hands, pull them in front of me together and start wrapping the chain around at my wrists.  Honestly, I figured it would be a pretty minor thing to wrangle from my perspective, but the chains got heavier as you added more of the 10′ of chain to the mix.  You clip it off and pull on it.  It’s surprisingly secure.  And heavy.

From around the corner, you return with more.  More chain.  You clip one end of the chain to my wrist tangle of chain and put my hands against my chest.  The length of chain is wrapped over my shoulder, back around my chest, pinning my hands to me.  You wrap this around me, going over my shoulders for vertical control, around my torso for side to side.

The weight is surprising.  It’s also erotic as hell, but I don’t really understand why.  This entire time, you look away from me only enough to attach the clips.  The cold of the chain, the roughness of the welds and metal… it’s all pushing buttons from bondage to metal to chains to “you really aren’t going anywhere.”

When you’re done and satisfied, after 3 different segments, I have chain around my entire upper torso, on both sides of my cock, like a metallic, but incredibly unforgiving g-string.  Where with nylon or even leather straps, I can usually move a bit, with the metal chain, there’s none of that.  The only give is my flesh, pressing into the chains.

As we get to the play room, you attach a hook from the winch to the original ring of chains around my hands.  You pull up on the winch until I’m fully-stretched, but still standing.  You put the spreader bar between my feet and attach it with the ankle cuff and stand back to admire your work.

When you walk behind me, I’m actually apprehensive – braced for impact.  But nothing comes.  I can almost feel you taking me in – looking at the chains, the clips, the hanging there and unable to do anything.  It’s not for lack of trying.  The chain simply has zero give.

You walk around in front of me, catch my gaze again and slowly lower yourself to about the level of my new metallic g-string.   You dive in and take a piece of my flesh into your mouth, biting down hard and rolling my flesh around in between your teeth.  As you pull away, my flesh is still between your teeth and you make a show of looking up at me and showing me my flesh.  I have to admit to a small bit of panic flowing through me now – especially as you choose a different site and I see the bite-shaped welts already formed at the first location, along with the bright red as blood rushes in.

This continues for several more places and the pain is beating at my brain. Then you reach around and grab my ass, digging in your fingernails.  It’s not vicious, but it’s enough.  I’m trying to remain upright – fighting my arms in the chains, fighting literally being hung up and having my feet splayed apart.  It’s almost comical, except it’s real.  I can feel myself melting into the restraints, then I feel you stroking me.

I’ve tried to look at you several times, but all I see is white light – like someone shining a light in my eyes – as I work to get past the screams coming at my head.  The stroking is slow and firm, and it directly conflicts with the pain signals I’m getting.  You know this, you live for the odd split of sensations and the responses it pulls from me.

Then suddenly, you stop.  But only for a second, as I feel pin pricks wandering around my lower torso, down my legs, up my legs and back again.  You’re using the wheel and when I look look down, I see little red dots where my body is responding to the pinwheel running over my flesh.  This continues, increasing in pressure ever so slightly as I adjust to it.  When I start to relax into it, you start pressing in earnest and when I look down, I see little tiny dots of blood forming the trails of where you’ve been with the wheel.

You start stroking me again, only to stop just as it starts to feel amazing, running the wheel over my straining cock, down over my balls, back and forth, up and down, then stopping and stroking once again.

When you stand up, I think we’re closing in on the end of this torture.  I think perhaps I’ve made it, satisfied you.  But you’re still stroking as you stand to the side.  In fact, you increase the pace and pressure, building the pressure in me.  I warn you that we’re approaching the point of no return and you feign not hearing me – asking me to repeat myself.  I can hardly talk at this point.

“Oh really?  I don’t remember saying that was in the cards… ” – I don’t even remember hearing the full sentence, because just as you finish up, I hear the swoosh of your crop.  With one hand stroking, the other you somehow brought the crop to the party.

The initial connection with my backside is traumatic and surprising and hurts like a mother.  It also shuts off my immediate urge to come.  You grin at me, then take several more hits.

When you’re comfortable that you have stopped the urge, you stop with the crop.  But you continue stroking.  Every time I warn you I’m getting close, the crop returns, taking away the urge.  If I could relax, lay down, NOT BE HANGING HERE, I’d be able to jump through the sub-space hoop that you’ve created, but I can’t.  I’m hanging by my arms, balancing the spreader, just enough to keep out of sub-space, which is precisely what you’re looking for.

I’ve gotten to the point where every time I get close, I’m terrified of telling you because I know the reciprocal crop hits are coming.  But you’re not stopping, so there’s no stopping getting to that edge over and over.  You’re enjoying the games going on in my mind immensely.

I’m a slobbering, sweating, horny, stinging mess and you love every minute of it.

Then, just to mess me up, you push me to that edge again and keep going, pretending to use the crop, but avoiding it this time.  I go crashing over the top unexpectedly, having braced for the impact of the crop, braced for the lack of orgasm, braced for holding myself upright.

All of that is out the window – As it washes over me, it’s like the orgasm comes simultaneously from every extremity, rushing to my screaming groin.  I feel every single muscle in my body rippling through it, convulsing with it.

As I hang there, now not so much holding my weight up as I am collapsed into the chains, you slowly lower me down, and start removing the chains.  When they are off, I have this amazing set of marks – from chain tracks to wheel tracks and more.  Much more.