He’s All Tied Up Right Now…

Monday comes, and we take our daughter to daycare. My wife calls in sick. We had planned to meet with someone from the place I was trying to get hired at, to talk about the job and what it entailed, but they had never called us. So when we get home and she gets right to business: “Do you mind being an object for me?”

Of course I don’t. The last few days have convinced me that my place is on my knees, her place above me. I’m a slave. She owns me. There’s no saying “no,” anymore –there’s simply “I can’t.” And saying that I can’t do something is an admission of weakness, and her man isn’t weak unless she beats me down like she did with the switch.

(Graphic sex follows. You’re warned.)

Before I know it, she’s got her laptop out, a porno running on it, while I disappear and go down on her. She doesn’t say a word to me, doesn’t touch me, basically ignores me totally: the only point of contact between us is my tongue and mouth on her, dancing across her clit, laving up and down over her sex. In just a few short minutes, she’s coming in my mouth, and there’s no moaning of my name, no thank you, just her coming all over my face. She sets the laptop aside and pulls me up next to her, musing aloud: “You’re so good at that. I want you to be an inanimate object for me: my sex-toy, or better still a table, or a couch, or an ottoman for me to prop my feet up on.” I smile at the thought and she notes my pleasure. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To just hold up my feet?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. I’d love that.”

“Why don’t you pay some attention to my feet right now?” she asks, and I drop to the edge of the bed and suck on her toes, lick her feet, kiss and stroke the tops of them, telling her how beautiful they are, how I worship them — and her. Soon, she’s ready, and she tells me to get the toybag.

She pulls out a long, braided leather cord she’d found somewhere. She’d used it to torture my cock and balls and play with binding my genitals on Saturday night, and she had decided that it was time for us to branch out into bondage. We’d messed with securing my arms in the past, but never gone fully into bondage fetishism. Until today.

She had me stand, and tied my ankles together. Then she pushed me back onto the bed and cuffed my hands. Then, she gagged me with a ballgag. “Stand up, baby boy,” she says, and I stand there, naked, teetering on my legs, my arms held up in front of my chest, my eyes wide as she pulls out a camera and photographs me: bound. Helpless. “You look good, honey.” She says. She’s cold and clinical as she captures me.

“Turn around,” she says, and I shuffle until my back is to her. She pushes me and I topple into the bed, and soon enough she’s grinding against me, her crotch thrusting against my ass, her tits pressing into my shoulder blades, her arms around me, her mouth on my neck. “I love you helpless.”

As if to satisfy herself that I really am helpless, the toys come out: I’m flogged. Long, strong shots to my back, my ass, my thighs. She takes underhanded shots at my nuts and I grunt and jerk away from the pain. She reaches down to console me, and we discover just how much I like bondage: the bed is soaked where my cock is. My penis is in a constant, low-level state of ejaculation, and when she crushes my balls, she feels my cock jerk and shoot out even more precome. “That’s incredible, honey. You love this.”

I grunt my agreement — it’s all I can do. I can’t signal with my hands secured above me, can’t speak. She sighs into me and leans into my back, setting the flogger by my face. “Oh, baby boy.” She says contentedly.

The crop comes out, and it’s sharp, painful shots to the ass and back. I grunt as she smacks me. I realize she’s rolling tape on this: capturing the way I hurt, the sound of the crop on me, the way my skin turns scarlet.

She has me roll over and tortures my nipples, jerks my cock. “You know, we should try candles,” she says excitedly, and she’s rushing out into the other room to get one of those candles in the glass jars. I lay there, immobile, my eyes wide with fear — we’ve never played with candles or fire or wax. She pours hot wax onto my nipples and I moan. It burns for a second, then the pain goes away. She covers my chest in wax, and then says, “God, I wish I could pour burning hot wax all over your dick and balls.”

I make eye contact with her. I’m afraid, afraid of the pain and the potential for hurt — but I’m a fucking slave now. And I know that when she says, “I wish I could…” what she really is looking for is a reaction from me that says that it won’t break me down to nothing. I make eye contact, and nod my head. She’s delighted, happy soccer-mom with a new toy.

The pain on my cock is incredible. It’s not used to this, and for a minute I think she’s pouring too close to my cock, or it’s the wrong kind of candle. Are there sex candles? This Yankee Candle Company candle is killing me. She pours hot wax from a low altitude directly on the shaft, then waits for some more wax to melt. Then, hot wax on my pubic area scores it in fire. It hurts far more than the wax on my chest, and I’m groaning into the gag, but she doesn’t care, and soon she pours hot wax directly onto the head of my cock, and I’m pressing my head back into the pillow and screaming into the gag. I don’t signal the safe sign, which is to flash a gesture with my fingers. She checks to see if the sign’s there, and when it’s not, she pours hot wax into her hand and starts rubbing it onto my dick.

“Mmm.” She says. She’s jerking me off. “You like that, don’t you?” Pain and pleasure are intermingling, my cock feels raw under the wax, she’s squeezing the minor burns, and I’m thrusting into her hand. She leans in and french kisses the gag. I start mumbling into the gag, and she undoes it and I beg her to let me fuck her. “Please, goddamn it, get the wax off and let me in. Let me pleasure you. I promise not to fail like I did the other night.”

Soon I’m pounding into her after she pulls the wax of my cock, and she’s wet and so tight. My cock aches and stings and I feel like a god, hurting and pleased at the same time. She’s telling me to smack her tits, to pull on her nipples, and I’m coming, coming so hard inside her. And after I come, she’s got me down on my stomach, still tied and bound, and I’m going down on her again and she’s coming into my mouth. When I’m finished, all I can do is lay my head on her thigh.

The phone rings. She gets up and leaves me on the bed in my leather binding and the handcuffs.

“Hello? Oh, hi. Yeah, we’re sorry we missed you. Oh, I know he’d love to get together and talk about the job, hold on.” She walks over to me and holds the phone to my ear until I can roll over and get it into my cuffed hands. I’m talking to the person I want to get a job from while she starts pulling wax off of me, then unties me. Daytime me is talking while submissive me is being unbound by my master. For a moment, I have to be both people at once, but then I’m off the phone and she’s saying, “Oh, my baby boy,” and stroking where she had cut her name into my chest.