When I woke up, I felt a sharp, not altogether good feeling bite from inside my cage. It felt off a bit. I was used to pressure in the tube. Used to pinches from time to time from the PA and the “fixing” for that. Even around the various points of the cage itself. But this felt… different.
Come to find out, I had a snake bite – a somewhat ugly bruise on the side and a bit of skin taken out of me by the cage. Must have been a good dream, and clearly the cage had bitten down hard on me. I was not amused, but I was going to be out of the cage for a bit.
That was about a week ago. It’s taken seemingly forever to heal. But it’s most of the way there now.
Tumblr. That weird/sweet/fun/terrible addiction. Sex blogs, experiences, other people’s stories and sexcapades. Good grief. So much to see, read and think about. I’m sitting here, minding my own business, texting with some, reading some, watching some, thinking a lot more about some.
You walk into the room and I don’t even flinch, but then you’re standing in front of me. Looking at me with this look. This raised-eyebrow look.
“Some good reads/watches today?” is all you say. I stop and wonder why you’re asking and start to respond as you reach down and grab my hand. Which had wandered due South. You have a death grip on it. My head goes through this flip-flopping game of trying to figure out what to say/do. It’s not the reading/watching/etc. – it’s the errant hand and, well, evidence of the situation – standing at attention. Clearly I don’t have a leg to stand on.
I fire up my best sheepish grin and try to pull my hand back to safe territory. You’re having none of that.
“Well, we can’t let this stand, can we?” You reach down and start stroking me mercilessly, almost mechanically. I try to scoot back in the chair to get away – I mean, sure, it feels good, but there’s something about it that just seems cold. “This is what you want, right?” “Yes, ma’am.” I’m hoping there’s a break in this attention and a simple get out of jail free card coming.
What can only be described as ambush continues. You’re madly stroking me, holding me in place against the back of the chair with one hand and rubbing me with the other. No other contact, nothing. No look, in fact you’re looking away specifically to avoid eye contact.
It doesn’t take long and I can feel myself screaming on the inside. “Stop stop stop stop” I start to say, squirming around the chair. You’re not acknowledging me – so I try louder, trying to get you to avoid the inevitable that is now flying up and down my spine between my head and my cock. I can feel the rush building, but I’m fighting it with every technique from football scores to contractions and anything else I can dream up. It’s just not working, it’s that simple.
I feel my self topple over that edge… and you stop touching me. Everything freezes. My insides convulse in this weird “do but don’t” dance that is going on inside me. I’m trying to hold back, but I just can’t. I trip over the edge and ooze out over your hand. As soon as I stop, you start stroking immediately again…. “well, this is what you wanted, right?” The surprise of the situation and my squirming around has pretty much destroyed my ability to discuss anything at all at this point. This fast after the ruined orgasm amounts to torture.
I. Just. Need. 30. Seconds. To. Recover…
HAH! Not happening and I can feel myself roaring down the orgasm road again. Somehow, some way, you know. When I get to that point of no return, but before the full orgasm point, you know. And you stop.
Again my insides are confused, convulsing almost, flopping around, I’m stabbing at the air and you continue to hold me down to the seat, continue refusing to look at me. I ooze all over your hand once again, gasping for air. Thankful it’s over.
But it’s not, of course. It’s you.
5, 10 seconds later, you start again, madly, mechanically stroking. It’s too soon – it borders on hurting, borders on punishment.
I feel myself roaring inside, determined to fight back, determined now not to let you win. To let you make me cry out from orgasms of all things. But I fail, again.
As soon as I stop oozing, you repeat this whole thing. I’m so hard that I feel like I might explode, and so sensitive that I don’t think there will be any relief, because I’m doing all I can to run AWAY from this. Somehow, with my writhing around, you’re able to hold me down, keep me from doing anything.
I’m vaguely aware of several more of these. Of my sweat now against the chair. Of my raging erection that is doing everything it can to get over the top for real, to get relief, to be released.
I look down at the wild mess I’ve made and you get up in my face. You move your hand from my chest to my left shoulder. Your other, incredibly gooped up hand on my right shoulder, “No damn touching without permission. Period.“
“Go clean up,” is all I hear as you walk away.