Coming and going

I have risen and left you sleeping. I slip my cage on and am ready to face the day. It is a deceptively cool mediterranean early morning and the dew sits thick on the grass,  bursting through the broken path that winds steeply to our door. Outside the umbrella pines and groves of olive trees cast shade that we will welcome in the high heat of the afternoon.

It’s a little chilly to be wearing nothing, but it helps to get the tiny cage on, my cock shrinking rapidly after the warmth of our bed. The temperature adds to my sense of feeling small all over. The stone flags in the kitchen feel cold and rough on my bare feet, as I fill the kettle. A cafetiere of thick, black coffee and flakey croissants to be served at the rough wooden table that dominates the room.

I’m not expecting you down yet, so feel suddenly exposed when you appear in nightdress and bathrobe at my back. I am standing at the kitchen countertop, hands resting on the stained wooden boards, as you come up behind me. Your cheek is warm as it presses into my back and I am suddenly aware of how cold my skin has become, and how it responds to the warmth of your flesh. Both your hands slip around my hips and rest upon the cage, your right hand holding the metal shaft itself, the left cupping the slightly raised and swollen balls.

You pull one of my hands back and under your night dress, pressing my fingers up into your messy cunt. I feel the heat of your breath intensify on my back and my cock flickers in its cage. Barred like a prisoner, I am an amputee imagining a phantom limb. I quickly fill my metal stump and feel the strain backing up inside me. You keep hold of the cage and lead me to the table, pushing me up against its edge. You kiss me and ease me back: “lie down, love, and focus on me”, you coo.

And I am spread upon the hard wooden table, four limbs hanging over its edge. And you set to work with your rope. Lashing my wrists under the table, you link up the rope to bind each ankle to a table leg. And you calmly fetch your lovingly prepared breakfast, and sit at the end to eat at leisure, sat between my legs, just the top of your head visible.

I don’t know how long you take, but it seems forever. I can hear you, out of sight, eating and drinking, taking your time as I feel the bindings on my wrists start to bite. My ankles are feeling a bit numb as you rise. Gently you cup my balls again, and rest the bottom of your full mug of coffee on the cage; the heat transfers quickly and soon my cock is warm, and then hot, from your drink. Instinctively, I writhe as the heat moves from swelling my cock to heating it. You withdraw and I relax, but now wide-eyed as I know what the game is.

Throughout the morning, you continue to work around me, taking every opportunity to tease or torture my caged member. A feather duster and vacuum cleaner as you clean the room, to tickle and suction; a bunch of herbs and a couple of raps from the spatula as you sear the meat for our slow-cooked stew; or a quick flick as you pass, the anticipation building. Until finally, after what seems like days, and with the loss of feeling almost complete in my external extremities, you stand naked before me, allowing your breasts to fall and smother the prisoner.

And you rub, enfolding the stub of my manhood in your capacious breasts, their warmth and softness stirring new life into its limited sphere of movement. As you work it, you bend and kiss my lower belly and thighs, leaving imprints of your lips like seeds in a flower bed. The numbness in my limbs has immobilised me completely except for my total focus at its core. As I lift my hips instinctively with your movement, the contrast between paralysis and super sensitivity in different parts of my body is putting my brain into overdrive. Heart racing, dry-mouth and shallow breathing, I feel myself struggling to process the feelings inside me. I ache, I hurt, I desire I crave, I need closure on this overstimulation of the senses.

And you have the key, fitted into the barrel lock, it pops and the metal sheath slides in your hand. Barely is it off than I have risen to full erection, my red, desperate cock straining to reach the skies before it is encased again, this time in the warmth of your mouth.

Gripping tighter on the rope as if to tear the table in two I can only lie as you lick and tease my tumescence, slowly sucking in deep and then releasing to tongue the tip with staccato flicks. All the while reminding me who owns my cock, and who can tell me when to come.

I close my eyes and give into the sensory collapse, unable to bear it any more, desperately straining not to come. From the distance, as though shouting through water, at last I hear your voice, the simple, single word: “come”.

And I am gone.  Spent and busted like a gambler’s luck. Ruined and broken like the winding path that led me here.


2 thoughts on “Coming and going

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