Close Enough

His email — brief, needy, throbbing, and barely coherent — pushed into my inbox with about as much appeal as a catcall from the sidewalk. I should have ignored it, just like I had his previous three, since I don’t want to encourage this undesirable behavior, but I didn’t. My casual invitation was a combination of convenience, appetite, and a hedge that he would ultimately flake anyway.

Maybe it’s like dating: your norm is plans, anticipation, seduction, realization, and that tender cuddle full of promises and hope at the end but every once in a while you, like, start making out with a stranger in a bar, end up fucking in the bathroom, and stroll home alone, a little shocked by what you’d done but still smiling.

In the vanilla world, it’s “Buy you a drink?” and for a prodomme it’s “Really feeling the need to be put in some crazy bondage…so stressed out…could really use a f-ed up session. Available?”

I chided him on his poor manners as soon as he walked in my door but it was too late to be teaching lessons. Thing is, while his session request skills suck to the point of offensive, he’s pretty fun to play with and, honestly, I was as horny for play as he was. You know when you get that itch, you just want it scratched and if the opportunity finds you, it’s hard to be discriminating. Lucky for him. (Ugh. Ok. Me, too.)

“Strip!” I ordered as soon as he stepped into the space.

I put a head harness on him and attached it to the A-frame, stretching him tall. His legs were spread and locked to the sides of the frames, then his arms went into leather sleeves and I locked them behind his head, posing him like beefcake.

Then I had my friend come in.

“She’s just here to watch,” I told him. Then I grabbed his balls firmly. “You’d best put on a good show.”

The next bit was a blur as I slipped into Topspace. The cruel, sex-sin tracks of Nick Cave’s “Murder Ballads” was playing as I writhed around my prey. Bondage belts went around his torso, his shoulders, his thighs. I put a spiked parachute harness on his junk and then leaned back, holding on to the chain, giving him my weight. Clover clamps on his nipples. A single tail licking his chest and cock with fire.

“I don’t like a lot of pain,” he wailed at one point.

“This isn’t ‘a lot’ of pain at all,” I assured him, and kept going.

Before taking him off the A-frame, I moved the bondage bed and lay pads on the rough jute floor. I crossed back over to him and pointedly slipped off my panties. The way he was bound, his head tilted up, it was hard, er, difficult for him to see, but I’m sure he knew what I’d done. I started removing his restraints and pointed to the pads. “When I’m done, you’re going to lie down over there,” I instructed, a promising twinkle in my eye. “Face up.”

If we were in a bar, this would be the point where I stop kissing him, put my hand on his crotch and suggest we meet at the bathroom. But this is kink and he’s not my conquest, he’s just a bitch. So I walked back to the pads, stood over them, and let out a torrent of soaking, puddling piss.

“Come here. Lie down.” So it wasn’t a dark unisex stall and a locked door, but, ha! Close enough.

He splashed down into the wet, cringing. My guest clambered onto the top of the bondage bed for a better view and lay on her stomach with her face propped up in her hands and her brightly socked feet swinging with glee.

I stretched him into a wide-X, locking each limb to one of the four posts of the suspension rig. My left leg had a rivulet of piss running down it, so I dragged it across his chest to dry off. Then I grabbed a tissue to wipe my wet pussy and shoved the damp, fragrant paper into the mouth hole of his mask.

Out came the Hitachi.

“You don’t have a lot of time,” I warned, pressing it into his cock. “If you manage to come, you must swallow whatever mess you make. If you don’t come, you’re going home without a shower.”  It was cold on the floor and the piss no doubt was clammy and uncomfortable underneath him. My friend and I hovered over him, making hushed, chuckling comments as we stared down his efforts.

I worried briefly for him to be on the streets in February with damp clothes, but figured he could probably use a cold shower.

Yeah. Close enough.

 

 

*I didn’t take any photos during the scene described. The images included — some of which are of him from a previous session — are for visual amusement only.