I awake caged and strapped to the bed where you left me, the silken ties still holding my wrists above my head and pulling my ankles toward the bedposts. My cock is still swollen, locked in the metal cage. The clothespins are laying against me, but no longer pinching my nipples.
I see your pajamas on floor outside the bathroom, hear the sounds of your bathing.
And I remember last night …
You had guided me gently into the bed. Laughing and giggling when you locked my cock up, telling me it was yours, that always and forever it would be yours. You kissed my lips, using your fingers on my suddenly sensitive chest. Because I couldn’t help but reciprocate, touching every part of your lithe body my fingertips could reach, you decided to tie me up. I begged; I promised to be good, to settle down, to be obedient. But, as always, my desire gave you the upper hand and I submitted.
Once I was bound, your teasing became more insistent. Each pass of your lips or hands was a little more firm, a little more demanding, a little more exciting, soon with brief hints of discomfort and shadows of pain. I was writhing. My hips were bucking, arms and legs pulling, and ‘your’ cock was throbbing in your cage.
You persisted. Fingernails pushing through the bars, stroking, stabbing, and scratching at the shaft. Lips sucking on nipples. Legs stroking mine. Your erect nipples pushing against my body and then my lips. Finally your hands slapping my face, your thighs squeezing my chest, your mouth hovering over mine.
At last you slid your pussy slowly up my torso. I could feel the cool trail as your hot juices were exposed to the air and dried on my chest. Agonizingly frustrating patience as you approached my mouth. Suddenly my mouth, covered with your saliva had a purpose. You held my skull in your hands, you squeezed my ears with your thighs and drove your wet slit against my wet and hungry mouth.
On and on and on you teased, you stroked, you tortured.
And then you left me. Fevered and left wanting, somehow I’d fallen asleep.
And now …
It is morning and you are coming out of the bathroom. The scents of my lust are replaced with those of soaps and powders. Your naked body elicits an involuntary groan from my mouth as your cock began to throb in its cage as if begging for attention. You gently unlocked the cage and carefully take my trembling and twitching shaft into your mouth. I feel your lips engulf me, your tongue wetly stroking me. Your delicate fingers probed at my ball-sack. I feel a night worth of passion begin to flow. And so can you.
With a “pop” you break contact.
Even as my sob of frustration fills the room, you reach for my head and look directly into my eyes. “Not yet,” you say.
You reached over me, keeping your breasts out of tongues hungry reach and untied one wrist.
“Go to work. See you tonight.” And you walked out.
“Men were created before women. … But that doesn’t prove their superiority – rather, it proves ours, for they were born out of the lifeless earth in order that we could be born out of living flesh. And what’s so important about this priority in creation, anyway? When we are building, we lay foundations on the ground first, things of no intrinsic merit or beauty, before subsequently raising up sumptuous buildings and ornate palaces. Lowly seeds are nourished in the earth, and then later the ravishing blooms appear; lovely roses blossom forth and scented narcissi.”
The Worth of Women: Wherein Is Clearly Revealed Their Nobility and Their Superiority to Men
Moderata Fonte and Virginia Cox
So Scunt ( AKA Debased Scunt, AKA Gentleman Slut) whom I kinda-sorta own, but not so much, since he’s quite the slut and pretty much any old Mistress will do when he’s itchy for some good old-fashioned persecution and mayhem, recently moved to a new place.
Recently single, Scunt found his version of the perfect bachelor pad: close to work, lots of amenities, uber modern, a skylight. I’m certain he was thinking he could play on the vanilla side of life for a change, wowing the pretty girls with his slick new pad.
Nope. Not a chance. Because a week after moving in, management installed storage bins in the basement.
And that changed everything.
Because those storage bins look — at least from Scunt’s perspective — very much like The Cage in which he longs to be held captive.
He begins obsessing, sending me multiple emails about The Cage, describing his twisted, craven fantasies. Oh he is in big-time heat. The storage bins are taunting him, calling him. He walks past them every day; thoughts of the torture, the agony, the isolation, the craven abuse and neglect he would suffer if he were captured and held in the The Cage.
Then I open an email from Scunt with one sentence:
I decided to imagine that you had ordered me to get the hell over myself and into the cage where I belong.
And an attachment …
Be still my ‘lil Femme Domme heart!
That Scunt simply could no longer resist the belligerent mocking of the dastardly Storage Bins just about knocked me into Domme Space. So with Scunt’s permission and a little bit of creative editing to keep him safe, here you have it: the reality of what Scunt is and what Scunt will always be.
So, mon sale petit cochon dégénéré, it seems the fancy place with the pretty windows and hardwood floors isn’t going to change a thing. After all is said and done, you just can’t run from The Cage. You can’t deny your pusillanimous heart’s traitorous desires.
Bachelorhood for you does NOT come with redemption. You can move to heaven’s highest cloud and salvation will still elude you.
You are not The Continental. The shampanya will not be flowing. The party is over.
So get on your knees, kiss my ass, and crawl back into The Cage.