Amanda: Hi, I'm Amanda!
Jason: And I'm Jason!
Amanda: And we're here to debate, and resolve, a topic that comes up constantly on Twitter and Youtube and whatever other social media you're wasting your time on. What is more painful: (covers her crotch, opens her eyes wide, speaks in an extra-high voice) Getting kicked in the balls...
Jason: Or... (mocks labor pains, moaning and panting. He's got one hand on his crotch and one hand behind his back, hiding something from the camera. He drops it between his legs. It's a rubber toy baby. It plops on the floor) childbirth.
Amanda: Very tasteful, Jason.
Jason: Thank you, Amanda. Anyway, ladies first.
Amanda: Thank YOU, Jason. And I say that childbirth is clearly, obviously, without question, more painful. WHY is this even a debate?
Jason: Amanda, I must retort. Think about this: Women are happy about having kids. How many guys do you know are happy about having his nuts crushed?
Amanda: (roll eyes) Well, let me ask you something. Have you ever seen a vagina?
Jason: I have seen many vaginas.
Amanda: And I assume you’ve also seen a baby?
Jason: Yes.
Amanda: Okay, imagine that baby passing through one of those “many vaginas” that you’ve seen. Doesn’t that look like it hurts?
Jason: Yes, but getting kicked in the jewels still hurts more. They did a study. Getting kicked in the testicles is 27,000 Del units of pain, which is the equivalent to stepping on thirty-eight Legos with your bare feet and then getting trampled by fifteen horses.
Amanda: “Del units”? Is that even a real thing? You read that on the internet. The only people talking about “Del units” are guys who want sympathy for getting kicked in the balls. No doctors talk about “Del units”. It’s a fake statistic.
Jason: Okay, you asked me a question earlier. Now I have a question for you. Have you ever kicked a guy in the balls?
Amanda: Yes.
Jason: (Surprised) Really? Why?
Amanda: Well, there was the guy at a bar last week who grabbed my ass, then there was that creep who kept staring at my boobs, and the guy who called me a bitch and then this one guy with a REALLY bad comb-over who tried to hit on me at–
Jason: Okay, you can stop now.
Amanda: Alright, but what was the point of that?
Jason: The point is that I’m now a little scared of you. I now know not to grab your ass, stare at your boobs, call you a bitch or hit on you if I ever have a bad comb-over because you’ll kick me in the nuts.
Amanda: You bet I will.
Jason: Okay so, by that logic, if a guy gets a girl pregnant, are you now scared of him?
Amanda: What? That doesn’t even make sense. This argument might be too hard for you. You may need to rest your head. I think I saw a pillow somewhere over there… (points off-camera)
Jason: Well, we need to resolve this debate. We promised.
Amanda: I know how to resolve it.
Jason: How?
Amanda: All you have to do is look up (points upward).
Jason: Look up? Are you serious?
Amanda: Yes, look up. The answer is right up there.
Jason: Alright. (looks up at the ceiling) What am I supposed to be seeing?
Amanda: (kicks him in the balls very hard)
Jason: (squeals in pain and clutches his poor manly parts)
Amanda: So, do you feel like you won this debate?
Jason: (strained voice, really hurting) No.
Amanda: (smiles big, jumps with joy) Really? So, I won?
Jason: (nods, barely able to speak) Yes.
Amanda: You were arguing just to argue, right? Clearly, I made more sense.
Jason: (face turning red, completely stunned, about to fall over) Yes.
Amanda: You know, I really admire you right now. To admit that you’re wrong definitely takes... well, it takes balls.
Jason: (moans, falls to the floor, curls up in a fetal position)
Amanda: (giggles) I knew you’d see things my way.
Monday, November 28, 2016
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
AFTER HOURS
She keeps a clean office. Her files are organized, her computer sparkles, she never leaves cups or food wrappers around, and her desk is dustless and uncluttered with everything in its right place.
After hours, her boss is in his right place, too. He sits across from her tied up with rope to a desk chair, hands behind his back, arms fastened down tightly, ankles bound to the chair legs. The gag over his mouth is one of her used thigh-high stockings that she keeps in a paper shopping bag by the coatrack.
He’s helpless, immobilized, just another piece of office furniture for her to use as she pleases.
She undoes his belt and pulls his expensive slacks down to his ankles. During the act, her hand brushes the bulge in his briefs, which makes it move. By the time she sits down across from him, crosses her legs and smiles, he’s got a cannon in his shorts and it’s pointed right at her.
That’s their game. Sometimes a man in charge craves a little submission. Office work is bondage anyway. May as well make it literal sometimes, just for fun.
He and his secretary don’t number their scenarios, but let’s call this one #3. The “Sexual Harassment Game”, that old classic.
After everyone’s gone home for the day, she bops around the office looking cute, all smooth skin, long legs, round ass, and breasts that push out against her dress. He comes on to her, she resists, says she doesn’t like bald men. Not discouraged, he grabs her butt and gives that peach a squeeze, to which she responds with a knee to his balls.
Does it hurt when she knees him in the balls?
God, yes. Neither he nor she can act worth a damn for the role-playing scene, but that knee to his testicles is real. So is his reddened face and the trauma that erupts between his legs and then blossoms up in his stomach.
Every time she knees him in the nuts—and she knees him hard—it’s a head-spinning ordeal, but he goes with it because that’s part of the humiliation. It’s supposed to hurt. It’s the double shot of whiskey in this heady sexual cocktail.
After he’s tied up (which is also real), she teases him. She gets him to squirm against the ropes and whine under his gag while a useless hard-on throbs between his legs. It's always up to her how she does it.
"It’s so easy for a woman to defeat a man," she says to him as she slips out of her dress.
She keeps a dildo in the back of the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet. She bends over in thong panties with her ass in the air like a petunia in full bloom, to pull it out and then stands up. She turns around and looks at her tied-up boss.
"Most of the time she can do it simply using this"—she puts a finger to her temple, indicating her brain.
"She can also do it using this"—she puts her hand down her panties and rests her palm flat against her vagina. Then she tugs her panties down her legs, shakes them down to her ankles, steps out of them and kicks them to her boss. They breeze against his face and then tumble to the floor.
"She can also do it with these and this"—she grabs her breasts and then slaps her naked ass.
Her boss, his erection still raging, doesn't move, doesn't struggle to get free from the ropes. He just watches her.
The secretary sits down in a chair across from him. She takes off her bra, tosses it, and then spreads her legs and lays the dildo between her thighs.
"And sometimes," she continues, "all she needs to use is this, right in his balls"—she taps her bare knee and smirks.
And that’s real, too. She says it naturally, no acting necessary.
After hours, her boss is in his right place, too. He sits across from her tied up with rope to a desk chair, hands behind his back, arms fastened down tightly, ankles bound to the chair legs. The gag over his mouth is one of her used thigh-high stockings that she keeps in a paper shopping bag by the coatrack.
He’s helpless, immobilized, just another piece of office furniture for her to use as she pleases.
She undoes his belt and pulls his expensive slacks down to his ankles. During the act, her hand brushes the bulge in his briefs, which makes it move. By the time she sits down across from him, crosses her legs and smiles, he’s got a cannon in his shorts and it’s pointed right at her.
That’s their game. Sometimes a man in charge craves a little submission. Office work is bondage anyway. May as well make it literal sometimes, just for fun.
He and his secretary don’t number their scenarios, but let’s call this one #3. The “Sexual Harassment Game”, that old classic.
After everyone’s gone home for the day, she bops around the office looking cute, all smooth skin, long legs, round ass, and breasts that push out against her dress. He comes on to her, she resists, says she doesn’t like bald men. Not discouraged, he grabs her butt and gives that peach a squeeze, to which she responds with a knee to his balls.
Does it hurt when she knees him in the balls?
God, yes. Neither he nor she can act worth a damn for the role-playing scene, but that knee to his testicles is real. So is his reddened face and the trauma that erupts between his legs and then blossoms up in his stomach.
Every time she knees him in the nuts—and she knees him hard—it’s a head-spinning ordeal, but he goes with it because that’s part of the humiliation. It’s supposed to hurt. It’s the double shot of whiskey in this heady sexual cocktail.
After he’s tied up (which is also real), she teases him. She gets him to squirm against the ropes and whine under his gag while a useless hard-on throbs between his legs. It's always up to her how she does it.
"It’s so easy for a woman to defeat a man," she says to him as she slips out of her dress.
She keeps a dildo in the back of the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet. She bends over in thong panties with her ass in the air like a petunia in full bloom, to pull it out and then stands up. She turns around and looks at her tied-up boss.
"Most of the time she can do it simply using this"—she puts a finger to her temple, indicating her brain.
"She can also do it using this"—she puts her hand down her panties and rests her palm flat against her vagina. Then she tugs her panties down her legs, shakes them down to her ankles, steps out of them and kicks them to her boss. They breeze against his face and then tumble to the floor.
"She can also do it with these and this"—she grabs her breasts and then slaps her naked ass.
Her boss, his erection still raging, doesn't move, doesn't struggle to get free from the ropes. He just watches her.
The secretary sits down in a chair across from him. She takes off her bra, tosses it, and then spreads her legs and lays the dildo between her thighs.
"And sometimes," she continues, "all she needs to use is this, right in his balls"—she taps her bare knee and smirks.
And that’s real, too. She says it naturally, no acting necessary.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
COMMERCIAL FOR A SITCOM
The camera loves her legs, her face, her hair, her breasts, her smile and everything else she's got.
That’s her, the brunette sitting on the couch on the set of a new husband-and-wife sitcom called Angie & Sam. Her smile is huge. Her eyes are sparkling oceans. Her short skirt shows all of her long showgirl legs while her famously large chest pushes out against a tight blue sweater that’s cut to show a wisp of cleavage.
Meet Angie.
"Hi!," Angie says, perky as can be, to the camera as the commercial starts, "I really want to tell you about my new show, but my husband is supposed to be here to do it with me and he’s late". She looks to the side as if addressing the camera crew. "Anyone seen him?"
"I’m here, I’m here," says a male voice off-camera.
A dumpy guy in jeans and a T-shirt and with a little extra weight on his gut bumbles onto the set. He pats down an unnatural-looking head of dark brown hair as he sits next to Angie and smiles at the camera.
Meet Sam.
"Uh," she says. "What is that thing on your head?"
"What are you talking about?" Sam acts confused by her question.
"The wig. You’re wearing a wig."
"No, I’m not. This is what I look like," he says, a nervous glare on his face. "Anyway, I want to tell everyone about our new show! It’s on Tuesdays at—"
"Wait," Angie interrupts him. "You’re not wearing that for our show. You’re bald. The audience needs to know that you’re bald." She looks directly into the camera, points to Sam and silently mouths the words "He’s bald.”
"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he says to her. Then he looks into the camera and continues. "Sorry everyone, she's a little crazy. Anyway, we have a great new show Tuesdays at—".
Angie reaches up and tries to snatch the wig off Sam’s head. He leans away from her and deflects the grab.
"Ah, ah, ah," he says.
She tries again. He leans away again.
"Stop!" he says. "We have to finish the commercial! We don’t have a lot of time."
"All right," she says, rolling her eyes.
Sam gives it one more try. Great new show. Tuesdays at—
And then Angie quickly punches him in the balls. Crunch! He never saw it coming.
Sam’s eyes bug out comically and instead of saying what time the show starts on Tuesdays, he lets out a fluttering whine that sounds like “huuu-uuuuh-uuuh”.
His hands move to cover his crotch and Angie pulls off Sam’s wig with ease revealing his horseshoe-patterned bald head to the world. She tosses the wig off-camera.
"Okay, that’s better," she says while Sam sits stiff as a statue in a world of pain, eyes wide open in shock.
"So," she continues, beaming at the camera, "We have a very funny show Tuesdays at 8 o’clock." She looks at Sam. "Do you want to tell them what date it starts?"
Sam makes a noise similar to a mouse squeak.
"We start on October 7," Angie says for him. "You should check it out. You’ll have a ball. Or two". She elbows Sam lightly in the ribs, a huge smile on her face. He’s too wrapped up in his pain to respond. "We think you’ll go nuts for us!"
Angie reaches up and pats Sam's bald head.
"Don't worry about him," she says to the camera. "He'll be better by Tuesday."
Fade out.
That’s her, the brunette sitting on the couch on the set of a new husband-and-wife sitcom called Angie & Sam. Her smile is huge. Her eyes are sparkling oceans. Her short skirt shows all of her long showgirl legs while her famously large chest pushes out against a tight blue sweater that’s cut to show a wisp of cleavage.
Meet Angie.
"Hi!," Angie says, perky as can be, to the camera as the commercial starts, "I really want to tell you about my new show, but my husband is supposed to be here to do it with me and he’s late". She looks to the side as if addressing the camera crew. "Anyone seen him?"
"I’m here, I’m here," says a male voice off-camera.
A dumpy guy in jeans and a T-shirt and with a little extra weight on his gut bumbles onto the set. He pats down an unnatural-looking head of dark brown hair as he sits next to Angie and smiles at the camera.
Meet Sam.
"Uh," she says. "What is that thing on your head?"
"What are you talking about?" Sam acts confused by her question.
"The wig. You’re wearing a wig."
"No, I’m not. This is what I look like," he says, a nervous glare on his face. "Anyway, I want to tell everyone about our new show! It’s on Tuesdays at—"
"Wait," Angie interrupts him. "You’re not wearing that for our show. You’re bald. The audience needs to know that you’re bald." She looks directly into the camera, points to Sam and silently mouths the words "He’s bald.”
"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he says to her. Then he looks into the camera and continues. "Sorry everyone, she's a little crazy. Anyway, we have a great new show Tuesdays at—".
Angie reaches up and tries to snatch the wig off Sam’s head. He leans away from her and deflects the grab.
"Ah, ah, ah," he says.
She tries again. He leans away again.
"Stop!" he says. "We have to finish the commercial! We don’t have a lot of time."
"All right," she says, rolling her eyes.
Sam gives it one more try. Great new show. Tuesdays at—
And then Angie quickly punches him in the balls. Crunch! He never saw it coming.
Sam’s eyes bug out comically and instead of saying what time the show starts on Tuesdays, he lets out a fluttering whine that sounds like “huuu-uuuuh-uuuh”.
His hands move to cover his crotch and Angie pulls off Sam’s wig with ease revealing his horseshoe-patterned bald head to the world. She tosses the wig off-camera.
"Okay, that’s better," she says while Sam sits stiff as a statue in a world of pain, eyes wide open in shock.
"So," she continues, beaming at the camera, "We have a very funny show Tuesdays at 8 o’clock." She looks at Sam. "Do you want to tell them what date it starts?"
Sam makes a noise similar to a mouse squeak.
"We start on October 7," Angie says for him. "You should check it out. You’ll have a ball. Or two". She elbows Sam lightly in the ribs, a huge smile on her face. He’s too wrapped up in his pain to respond. "We think you’ll go nuts for us!"
Angie reaches up and pats Sam's bald head.
"Don't worry about him," she says to the camera. "He'll be better by Tuesday."
Fade out.
Monday, November 11, 2013
VACATION
The leash around his neck pulls him toward her.
Thankfully, it isn't a long walk to the mistress.
Nina, a female guard with luxurious brown hair and a buxom figure hugged in a black spandex body-stocking, holds the leash.
Before they see the mistress, Nina double checks Jason at the door to make sure he's presentable.
His face has two-day stubble, but the mistress doesn't mind that. One of the girls will shave him before it gets any thicker.
Nina runs a soft towel over Jason's naturally bald head, his bare shoulders and his chest. She tugs at the silk rope that binds his hands to make sure he's tied tight.
Lastly, she pulls up his wine red bikini, the only piece of clothing that the men are allowed to wear here. It's so small that it's little more than a tight pouch for his genitals. With her hand, Nina adjusts Jason's bulge so that it neatly points up and doesn't hang to either side. She pays no mind to the erection he gets as a result.
After about a minute of this, she knocks on the mistress's door, the mistress calls her in and Nina leads Jason inside.
It's a large room, like an over-sized executive office, decorated all in red with a wood floor, thick curtains over the windows, and a private bathroom. A person could live here. It even has a bed in the far right corner. An indoor jacuzzi is visible past two windowed French doors.
At her ornate chair on the other side of the room, the mistress sits comfortably, sleek and slim in a black latex mini-dress, fetching legs crossed and abundant cleavage up top. Her skin is cloud white and her hair is a black waterfall. She wears a small studded nose ring and has a tattoo of a lilac on her left arm. The mistress watches Jason closely and smirks at his erection and his awkward steps across the room.
The guard stops Jason directly in front of the mistress and stands aside, still holding the leash.
"Time for your daily discipline," the mistress says. Her voice is high and girlish for someone of such authority.
She reaches two fingers between her breasts and pulls out a coin.
"Now," she continues, "as you know, we flip a coin. If it comes up tails, you get whipped on the ass. If it comes up heads, you get it in the balls. Do you have anything to say?"
"I'm just hoping for tails this time."
Jason got heads the last time two times he was here. He was curled up on the floor for a good half-hour each time and the pain throbbed the whole day.
"Well, good luck," the mistress says to the tied-up man. "Oh, and by the way, you are aware of our policy on masturbation here, correct? And you have followed that rule, correct?"
"Yes," he says. His voice trembles a little. He fidgets and tries to disguise it as stretching his neck muscles. He moves with a liar's body language.
Masturbation without permission is against the rules. Men who succumb are typically kept in restraints for an entire day or two to prevent further temptation.
The mistress looks Jason right in the eye for several seconds and then says "Okay, let's proceed."
The mistress tosses the coin and catches it on the drop. She covers it in the palm of her left hand and lets the suspense hang in the air for a few seconds.
Then she uncovers it.
Heads.
Jason's body temperature shoots up several degrees. He squirms a little in his bondage. The guard tugs at the leash.
"Ooh," the mistress says with a smile. "Three days in a row."
The mistress lays down her two-headed coin. It's the coin she uses for new prisoners, liars, masturbators, and whenever she feels like kicking a man in the nuts.
She stands up, kicks off her shoes and steps back. She'll use no toys here. The mistress crushes balls the old-fashioned way: with a kick.
Jason shuts his eyes.
"Eyes open!", she snaps at him.
Nina tugs at the leash and Jason does as he's told.
He watches the mistress walk back a few paces, like she's about to kick a football. Then she leaps forward, shifts her weight just right, and plants her bare foot in Jason's balls with all of her strength.
The sound is a loud smack followed by an instant male moan that fills the room.
Jason doubles over with the wet eyes and red face of a man for whom the whole world has shut down and nothing exists but his pain. He squeezes his eyes closed like he wants to dream all of this away.
"Don't let him fall down," the mistress says to Nina. "Tie him to the chair by the jacuzzi."
Nina pulls him to the chair. He limps over. It takes about a minute. She commands him to sit down and he does. Nina ties him to the chair with some silk rope that sits nearby.
"How's the water in the jacuzzi?", the mistress asks as she pulls down her stockings.
Nina dips in a toe. The jacuzzi is a few feet away. "Nice and warm," she says.
"Great," the mistress says. She lifts up her dress, pulls it over her head, takes it off, and lays it on her chair. She stands naked.
"Okay," the mistress continues, "I'll handle the masturbator from here. You can go now."
"Yes, mistress," Nina says. She leaves.
The mistress walks over to Jason and stands right in front of him. She's nude but for her nose ring.
"I know you masturbated last night," she says.
It's true.
"Who," she continues, "did you think about?"
"You," Jason says. His eyes are still closed. He's in a lot of pain.
The mistress smiles and then asks "What did you think about?"
Jason opens his eyes.
"This," he says.
"Well, that's extra naughty," she says, still smiling. "That's serious. That's worth at lot more shots to your balls.
"But first, I'm going to relax in the jacuzzi. You're welcome to watch. There's nothing else you can do, I guess."
She bends down and rests her hand on the bulge in Jason's prisoner bikini.
"Just try to keep this thing under control," she continues. "Or I may have to get a little rough with it."
The mistress stands and steps gently into the jacuzzi. The warm water kisses her all over.
Jason, meanwhile, emerges slightly from his testicular pain Twilight Zone. He watches the mistress in the jacuzzi. Her bare breasts are just above the water line. The rest of her nakedness is a blur. She tips her head back and closes her eyes. Jason watches her smooth, lovely neck.
Jason thinks about the rope that ties him down. He thinks about the mistress's curvy body, his imagination sliding into every crevice and contour. He thinks about the pain that still sits in his testicles and lower stomach. He thinks about the sweat that he can't wipe off that's collecting on his forehead.
Two things that he doesn't think about:
1) The lousy office job from which he's on vacation.
2) Saying the safeword.
The mistress raises her right leg straight up out of the jacuzzi and kicks some water at Jason. The droplets that land on his face and chest feel good.
All of this feels good. Even the things that feel bad.
Before they see the mistress, Nina double checks Jason at the door to make sure he's presentable.
His face has two-day stubble, but the mistress doesn't mind that. One of the girls will shave him before it gets any thicker.
Nina runs a soft towel over Jason's naturally bald head, his bare shoulders and his chest. She tugs at the silk rope that binds his hands to make sure he's tied tight.
Lastly, she pulls up his wine red bikini, the only piece of clothing that the men are allowed to wear here. It's so small that it's little more than a tight pouch for his genitals. With her hand, Nina adjusts Jason's bulge so that it neatly points up and doesn't hang to either side. She pays no mind to the erection he gets as a result.
After about a minute of this, she knocks on the mistress's door, the mistress calls her in and Nina leads Jason inside.
It's a large room, like an over-sized executive office, decorated all in red with a wood floor, thick curtains over the windows, and a private bathroom. A person could live here. It even has a bed in the far right corner. An indoor jacuzzi is visible past two windowed French doors.
At her ornate chair on the other side of the room, the mistress sits comfortably, sleek and slim in a black latex mini-dress, fetching legs crossed and abundant cleavage up top. Her skin is cloud white and her hair is a black waterfall. She wears a small studded nose ring and has a tattoo of a lilac on her left arm. The mistress watches Jason closely and smirks at his erection and his awkward steps across the room.
The guard stops Jason directly in front of the mistress and stands aside, still holding the leash.
"Time for your daily discipline," the mistress says. Her voice is high and girlish for someone of such authority.
She reaches two fingers between her breasts and pulls out a coin.
"Now," she continues, "as you know, we flip a coin. If it comes up tails, you get whipped on the ass. If it comes up heads, you get it in the balls. Do you have anything to say?"
"I'm just hoping for tails this time."
Jason got heads the last time two times he was here. He was curled up on the floor for a good half-hour each time and the pain throbbed the whole day.
"Well, good luck," the mistress says to the tied-up man. "Oh, and by the way, you are aware of our policy on masturbation here, correct? And you have followed that rule, correct?"
"Yes," he says. His voice trembles a little. He fidgets and tries to disguise it as stretching his neck muscles. He moves with a liar's body language.
Masturbation without permission is against the rules. Men who succumb are typically kept in restraints for an entire day or two to prevent further temptation.
The mistress looks Jason right in the eye for several seconds and then says "Okay, let's proceed."
The mistress tosses the coin and catches it on the drop. She covers it in the palm of her left hand and lets the suspense hang in the air for a few seconds.
Then she uncovers it.
Heads.
Jason's body temperature shoots up several degrees. He squirms a little in his bondage. The guard tugs at the leash.
"Ooh," the mistress says with a smile. "Three days in a row."
The mistress lays down her two-headed coin. It's the coin she uses for new prisoners, liars, masturbators, and whenever she feels like kicking a man in the nuts.
She stands up, kicks off her shoes and steps back. She'll use no toys here. The mistress crushes balls the old-fashioned way: with a kick.
Jason shuts his eyes.
"Eyes open!", she snaps at him.
Nina tugs at the leash and Jason does as he's told.
He watches the mistress walk back a few paces, like she's about to kick a football. Then she leaps forward, shifts her weight just right, and plants her bare foot in Jason's balls with all of her strength.
The sound is a loud smack followed by an instant male moan that fills the room.
Jason doubles over with the wet eyes and red face of a man for whom the whole world has shut down and nothing exists but his pain. He squeezes his eyes closed like he wants to dream all of this away.
"Don't let him fall down," the mistress says to Nina. "Tie him to the chair by the jacuzzi."
Nina pulls him to the chair. He limps over. It takes about a minute. She commands him to sit down and he does. Nina ties him to the chair with some silk rope that sits nearby.
"How's the water in the jacuzzi?", the mistress asks as she pulls down her stockings.
Nina dips in a toe. The jacuzzi is a few feet away. "Nice and warm," she says.
"Great," the mistress says. She lifts up her dress, pulls it over her head, takes it off, and lays it on her chair. She stands naked.
"Okay," the mistress continues, "I'll handle the masturbator from here. You can go now."
"Yes, mistress," Nina says. She leaves.
The mistress walks over to Jason and stands right in front of him. She's nude but for her nose ring.
"I know you masturbated last night," she says.
It's true.
"Who," she continues, "did you think about?"
"You," Jason says. His eyes are still closed. He's in a lot of pain.
The mistress smiles and then asks "What did you think about?"
Jason opens his eyes.
"This," he says.
"Well, that's extra naughty," she says, still smiling. "That's serious. That's worth at lot more shots to your balls.
"But first, I'm going to relax in the jacuzzi. You're welcome to watch. There's nothing else you can do, I guess."
She bends down and rests her hand on the bulge in Jason's prisoner bikini.
"Just try to keep this thing under control," she continues. "Or I may have to get a little rough with it."
The mistress stands and steps gently into the jacuzzi. The warm water kisses her all over.
Jason, meanwhile, emerges slightly from his testicular pain Twilight Zone. He watches the mistress in the jacuzzi. Her bare breasts are just above the water line. The rest of her nakedness is a blur. She tips her head back and closes her eyes. Jason watches her smooth, lovely neck.
Jason thinks about the rope that ties him down. He thinks about the mistress's curvy body, his imagination sliding into every crevice and contour. He thinks about the pain that still sits in his testicles and lower stomach. He thinks about the sweat that he can't wipe off that's collecting on his forehead.
Two things that he doesn't think about:
1) The lousy office job from which he's on vacation.
2) Saying the safeword.
The mistress raises her right leg straight up out of the jacuzzi and kicks some water at Jason. The droplets that land on his face and chest feel good.
All of this feels good. Even the things that feel bad.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
THE CONVENTION CREEPER
The girls felt like real heroes after they finished tying him up.
"Best way ever to teach a lesson to a convention creeper," Cat said to Ardella, as the man struggled to free himself from the ropes. "You're a genius."
Cat was slim and pretty in a two piece Supergirl costume that was faithful to the short skirt and bare midriff from the comic book.
Ardella's busty figure was squeezed into a skintight Power Girl leotard that was also faithful to the comic, right down to the famous cleavage window.
"Me? It was your idea to trick him into taking us to his hotel room," Ardella said.
"And then it was your idea to knee him in the balls," Cat said.
"And then it was your idea to tie him up."
"And you really know how tie up a person. These knots are crazy."
Supergirl Cat walked in a circle around the man who was tied to the hotel room desk chair. He struggled so hard in his bondage that his face was red from frustration, but the girls felt safe. He wore a bad Spider-Man costume, mask off and with tape that the girls had put over his mouth.
"Okay," Ardella said. "Then we're both geniuses."
The girls high-fived.
"Mmmmfuffmmm," was all Spider-Man could shout from behind the tape. (He was trying to say "Let me go!")
Everyone at the comic convention downstairs hated this guy. He was there for no other reason than to get creepy with the costumed girls. In total, Spider-Man here grabbed the asses of three Black Widows, two Black Cats and one Black Canary. He also pinched a Poison Ivy, felt up an Emma Frost, tried to molest an Elektra, spank a She-Hulk, hit on a Hit Girl, and expose himself to a Dazzler.
He continued to squirm against the ropes as Power Girl Ardella stepped in front of him and bent over. He immediately looked deep into her cleavage.
"Ah, ah, look me in the eye," she said. She snapped her fingers in his face. "So, do you think you've learned your lesson here about how to treat girls at the convention?"
He shot her an angry look and thrashed hard at his bondage. He yelled "let me go, you bitch!", but through his gag it came out as "Fffmmhmmmffffmmm!"
"Oh, Cat," Ardella said. "I already kneed him in the balls, but I think he could use another shot--or should I say a punch? Would you care to do the honors?"
"Of course," Cat said.
With his ankles tied, Spider-Man's crotch was wide open and the bulge in his spandex was a perfect target. Cat walked over, smiled, and made a fist. The tied-up man looked at her and shook his head with a pleading look in his eyes. He whined behind his gag.
She punched him square in the nuts. One little hard fist to two soft testicles. The pain was like a giant crack of thunder at the start of a major storm. Water flowed from his eyes and his whole body froze.
Ardella put two hands to his warm face and looked into his glazed eyes.
"Now do we understand each other?" she asked.
He nodded dumbly and whimpered quietly.
"Good," she said. "I'm glad we had this talk. Now, we're going to leave."
Cat picked up the Do Not Disturb sign from the desk.
"And we're going to put this sign on the door for you," Cat said, "so that you have plenty of time to think about what you've learned today."
Down in the black hole of testicular pain, he didn't hear a thing as the girls laughed, walked out the door with the sign, and left him tied to the chair.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
New Tumblr
http://wackpics.tumblr.com/
Another jerk-off fuel Tumblr of sexy pictures of girls, except that this one features me commenting on each pic. Ballbusting fantasies run rampant. It's meant to be funny. In any case, I write more prolifically there than I do here presently.
Another jerk-off fuel Tumblr of sexy pictures of girls, except that this one features me commenting on each pic. Ballbusting fantasies run rampant. It's meant to be funny. In any case, I write more prolifically there than I do here presently.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Between Thieves
"Do me a favor," she said to the nearly naked man. "Struggle a bit. I want to make sure that the ropes are good and tight."
The tape over his mouth kept him from saying anything so he just shot her a brief, strange look and then quickly obeyed. When a woman has you tied up, you do what she says. When your legs are spread and she's sitting across from you and resting her foot on the edge of your chair mere inches from your balls, you do what she says immediately.
So, he struggled. He shifted in the chair, strained to move his arms. He tried extra hard to close his legs, but he got nowhere. He was a strong man, in good shape, but it felt like he could wriggle all night and never get loose. Her knots were tight. She had him good. She caught him in his little bikini underwear, no shirt, no pants. His bare skin stung from the rope.
"No luck, right?" she said, shaking her head, eyes glimmering from behind the black mask over the top half of her face. "I'm pretty good at this, you think?" She smiled.
The man stopped struggling and stared razors at her.
"Do you mind if I smoke?", she said. She pulled out a pack of Camels from a compartment on her black leather belt and slid a lighter out from between her breasts. She never looked away from his seething face as she lit up a cigarette.
The only light in the room was from the city streets outside of the man's 36th floor luxury apartment, but it was bright enough that he was able get a good look at the woman for the first time. He tried to figure out who she was, but he had no idea. Even with her mask, he could see that she was much younger than him, probably in her mid-20s, with dark brown hair and lustrous skin. She wore a black spandex catsuit that stretched skintight against every contour of her hourglass body. Even in his situation, the man found her sexy.
"It's a bad habit, I know," she said after exhaling her first drag. "If you're gonna sneak around like we do, it's important to be healthy, I think. I work my ass off to fit into this outfit. I work hard to be agile and strong so I can sneak into places... like your apartment tonight... quietly. I've dangled from roofs, I've climbed ropes, I've snuck into ventilation systems. I've done crazy things. And yes, yes, the boobs can be a problem..."
Her breasts swelled against her suit like two big, soft pillows. The neck of her outfit scooped down to show off a mile of cleavage.
"... But", she continued, "they can also be an advantage. I'm very aware of their power to distract. When you saw that I'd broken into your apartment and you tried to fight me, you looked down at my chest twice, which gave me the upper hand. It definitely made it easy for me to kick you in the balls and win. You've looked down at my boobs four times as I've been talking to you right now."
It was true. The tied-up man blushed a little.
The woman smiled, enjoying his embarrassment.
"Sorry about your balls, by the way", she said after a drag off the Camel. "I can only imagine how much that hurts, especially with these pointy boots I have on. I've never seen a guy take a kick to the nuts well. Sometimes a man can tough it out and remain upright, but he's shaky. You can tell that he really wants to curl up on the floor and do some quiet contemplation."
She put out her cigarette and then reached into her belt. She pulled out something that he couldn't see.
"But," she continued, "you know what must really hurt? Having your balls cut off."
It was a switchblade. She touched a button and a knife flicked out.
The man's insides froze over with fear. He began to struggle at the ropes again, but quietly so as not to excite the woman with the knife.
"That has to suck," she said. She glanced down at the bulge in his briefs and then looked back up at his nervous face. "Not only does it hurt, but it pretty much changes a man because that's where your testosterone comes from. Without your balls, you kind of become a girl in certain ways. Now, since you're an adult, your voice won't get high and your facial hair won't stop growing, I don't think, but your natural muscle mass will fade away and you'll start to need help opening jars. Your sex drive will disappear. Some castrated men even grow boobs because the distribution of fat on their body becomes more like a woman. I think that's how it works, at least. Bottom line: you don't want to lose your nuts."
She looked the man right in the eye and stroked the flat of the knife with her other hand. He wanted to moan, but he didn't dare.
The woman stood up and stepped behind the man. She laid the knife down on top of a fancy liquor cabinet nearby and rubbed his bare shoulders for a bit.
"Wow, you are tense," she said. She grabbed a small towel that was on top of the liquor cabinet and dabbed sweat off of his bald head and his shoulders. She then tossed the towel aside, picked up the knife again and bent over the tied-up man from behind so that her chin rested on his shoulder and her arms were out in front of him, showing him the knife again. His body heat was a like a furnace.
"Now you're a bad guy, but, hey, I'm a bad girl so who cares?" she said. "You're a thief, just like me. You disarm burglar alarms, just like me. You crack safes, just like me. You sneak into places that you shouldn't be in and take things that you shouldn't take, just like me. And just like me, you have clients who hire you to steal for them.
"And it doesn't happen often, but sometimes two different clients will hire two different thieves to steal the same thing. It's kind of funny. It can lead to funny situations, like this one."
For the man, things suddenly became very clear.
"Now, I'm not sure who your client is," the woman continued, "but my client is a very powerful Russian collector and he hired little ol' me to, um, acquire The Royal Crown Jewels as soon as they left his country for their big American museum tour. I had a great plan for how to do it, too. I was ready. I was gonna glide in like a bird.... BUT you beat me to it. By literal seconds. And I know it was you because I saw you. And I followed you. I've been keeping tabs on you. I've been a fly on your wall for a week. I know your name, John. I know that you're 42 and turning 43 in two months and seven days. I know that you drive a new Lexus. I know that you had a divorce ten years ago. I have your social security number. I may even have your high school report cards. I'm good. You're good, too, but I think you've gotten a little sloppy with time. You certainly won't see another thief breaking into my apartment in the middle of the night while I'm in my underwear and kicking my ass and tying me up.
"I also know that you still have the jewels. But pretty soon, I'm gonna have the jewels. Either The Crown Jewels or"--she reached down between John's legs and cupped his testicles--"these jewels."
She stood up straight and walked to where she was facing John again. She reached down and ripped the tape off of his mouth.
"Okay, where are they?" she said.
"I don't have them."
She instantly lifted her leg and buried the toe of her boot in his nuts. John's face went ruby red and he moaned out loud.
"Do you care to rephrase your answer?"
He shivered under the ropes and his eyes welled up. He moved his lips, but for several seconds nothing came out. His eyes looked out wide into nothing.
"I... I... I mean that... I don't have them... here", he finally managed to say. "They're... in the trunk of... a car... in a garage on... 4th and King."
"That's down the street. What kind of car?"
"Buick Century.... silver... 2005."
The woman sat down in the chair across from John. She raised her leg and put one foot on John's chair. She pushed the heel of her boot against his balls hard enough to make him moan.
"Okay, let's see," she said. She pulled a cellphone out from her belt and dialed up one of her contacts.
"4th and King, parking garage," she said to someone on the phone, no greeting, no pleasantries. "2005 Silver Buick Century, the trunk."
She hit a button on the phone to end the call and then waited.
She calmly looked around the apartment. "This place is really nice," she said as a mix of John's tears and sweat dripped onto the pointy black toe of the boot that she kept pressed to his testicles.
Seven minutes went by, though to John it felt like an hour. She talked more about his apartment during that time, but he didn't hear a word. Then her cellphone vibrated.
"Good," was all the woman said to the mysterious person on the other end of the exchange before she ended the call and put her phone away.
"Well, you told the truth," she said. "I have the jewels now and you get to keep your balls. My Russian will be happy. I guess I can stop this now." She lifted her foot off of John's sac and he winced in slight relief. She also retracted the switchblade and returned it to her belt pouch. She stood up and looked around the room to make certain that she didn't leave any clues as to her identity. She even scooped up the cigarette butt. All that she was going to leave behind were the ropes. She tugged at them, now sweat-soaked from John, to make sure they were still holding him tight. They were.
"Your housekeeper, the little skinny woman, she works tomorrow, right?", she said to John.
He nodded his head.
"Good. She can untie you when she gets here."
The lady thief tore off a fresh strip of tape and put it over John's mouth.
"I know that your housekeeper comes in at ten," she said. "That gives you about six hours. It sucks, I know, but it could be worse". She reached down and firmly patted John's balls, which made him wince.
She then climbed out the window where a rope hung down from the roof of the building and disappeared into the night.
The tape over his mouth kept him from saying anything so he just shot her a brief, strange look and then quickly obeyed. When a woman has you tied up, you do what she says. When your legs are spread and she's sitting across from you and resting her foot on the edge of your chair mere inches from your balls, you do what she says immediately.
So, he struggled. He shifted in the chair, strained to move his arms. He tried extra hard to close his legs, but he got nowhere. He was a strong man, in good shape, but it felt like he could wriggle all night and never get loose. Her knots were tight. She had him good. She caught him in his little bikini underwear, no shirt, no pants. His bare skin stung from the rope.
"No luck, right?" she said, shaking her head, eyes glimmering from behind the black mask over the top half of her face. "I'm pretty good at this, you think?" She smiled.
The man stopped struggling and stared razors at her.
"Do you mind if I smoke?", she said. She pulled out a pack of Camels from a compartment on her black leather belt and slid a lighter out from between her breasts. She never looked away from his seething face as she lit up a cigarette.
The only light in the room was from the city streets outside of the man's 36th floor luxury apartment, but it was bright enough that he was able get a good look at the woman for the first time. He tried to figure out who she was, but he had no idea. Even with her mask, he could see that she was much younger than him, probably in her mid-20s, with dark brown hair and lustrous skin. She wore a black spandex catsuit that stretched skintight against every contour of her hourglass body. Even in his situation, the man found her sexy.
"It's a bad habit, I know," she said after exhaling her first drag. "If you're gonna sneak around like we do, it's important to be healthy, I think. I work my ass off to fit into this outfit. I work hard to be agile and strong so I can sneak into places... like your apartment tonight... quietly. I've dangled from roofs, I've climbed ropes, I've snuck into ventilation systems. I've done crazy things. And yes, yes, the boobs can be a problem..."
Her breasts swelled against her suit like two big, soft pillows. The neck of her outfit scooped down to show off a mile of cleavage.
"... But", she continued, "they can also be an advantage. I'm very aware of their power to distract. When you saw that I'd broken into your apartment and you tried to fight me, you looked down at my chest twice, which gave me the upper hand. It definitely made it easy for me to kick you in the balls and win. You've looked down at my boobs four times as I've been talking to you right now."
It was true. The tied-up man blushed a little.
The woman smiled, enjoying his embarrassment.
"Sorry about your balls, by the way", she said after a drag off the Camel. "I can only imagine how much that hurts, especially with these pointy boots I have on. I've never seen a guy take a kick to the nuts well. Sometimes a man can tough it out and remain upright, but he's shaky. You can tell that he really wants to curl up on the floor and do some quiet contemplation."
She put out her cigarette and then reached into her belt. She pulled out something that he couldn't see.
"But," she continued, "you know what must really hurt? Having your balls cut off."
It was a switchblade. She touched a button and a knife flicked out.
The man's insides froze over with fear. He began to struggle at the ropes again, but quietly so as not to excite the woman with the knife.
"That has to suck," she said. She glanced down at the bulge in his briefs and then looked back up at his nervous face. "Not only does it hurt, but it pretty much changes a man because that's where your testosterone comes from. Without your balls, you kind of become a girl in certain ways. Now, since you're an adult, your voice won't get high and your facial hair won't stop growing, I don't think, but your natural muscle mass will fade away and you'll start to need help opening jars. Your sex drive will disappear. Some castrated men even grow boobs because the distribution of fat on their body becomes more like a woman. I think that's how it works, at least. Bottom line: you don't want to lose your nuts."
She looked the man right in the eye and stroked the flat of the knife with her other hand. He wanted to moan, but he didn't dare.
The woman stood up and stepped behind the man. She laid the knife down on top of a fancy liquor cabinet nearby and rubbed his bare shoulders for a bit.
"Wow, you are tense," she said. She grabbed a small towel that was on top of the liquor cabinet and dabbed sweat off of his bald head and his shoulders. She then tossed the towel aside, picked up the knife again and bent over the tied-up man from behind so that her chin rested on his shoulder and her arms were out in front of him, showing him the knife again. His body heat was a like a furnace.
"Now you're a bad guy, but, hey, I'm a bad girl so who cares?" she said. "You're a thief, just like me. You disarm burglar alarms, just like me. You crack safes, just like me. You sneak into places that you shouldn't be in and take things that you shouldn't take, just like me. And just like me, you have clients who hire you to steal for them.
"And it doesn't happen often, but sometimes two different clients will hire two different thieves to steal the same thing. It's kind of funny. It can lead to funny situations, like this one."
For the man, things suddenly became very clear.
"Now, I'm not sure who your client is," the woman continued, "but my client is a very powerful Russian collector and he hired little ol' me to, um, acquire The Royal Crown Jewels as soon as they left his country for their big American museum tour. I had a great plan for how to do it, too. I was ready. I was gonna glide in like a bird.... BUT you beat me to it. By literal seconds. And I know it was you because I saw you. And I followed you. I've been keeping tabs on you. I've been a fly on your wall for a week. I know your name, John. I know that you're 42 and turning 43 in two months and seven days. I know that you drive a new Lexus. I know that you had a divorce ten years ago. I have your social security number. I may even have your high school report cards. I'm good. You're good, too, but I think you've gotten a little sloppy with time. You certainly won't see another thief breaking into my apartment in the middle of the night while I'm in my underwear and kicking my ass and tying me up.
"I also know that you still have the jewels. But pretty soon, I'm gonna have the jewels. Either The Crown Jewels or"--she reached down between John's legs and cupped his testicles--"these jewels."
She stood up straight and walked to where she was facing John again. She reached down and ripped the tape off of his mouth.
"Okay, where are they?" she said.
"I don't have them."
She instantly lifted her leg and buried the toe of her boot in his nuts. John's face went ruby red and he moaned out loud.
"Do you care to rephrase your answer?"
He shivered under the ropes and his eyes welled up. He moved his lips, but for several seconds nothing came out. His eyes looked out wide into nothing.
"I... I... I mean that... I don't have them... here", he finally managed to say. "They're... in the trunk of... a car... in a garage on... 4th and King."
"That's down the street. What kind of car?"
"Buick Century.... silver... 2005."
The woman sat down in the chair across from John. She raised her leg and put one foot on John's chair. She pushed the heel of her boot against his balls hard enough to make him moan.
"Okay, let's see," she said. She pulled a cellphone out from her belt and dialed up one of her contacts.
"4th and King, parking garage," she said to someone on the phone, no greeting, no pleasantries. "2005 Silver Buick Century, the trunk."
She hit a button on the phone to end the call and then waited.
She calmly looked around the apartment. "This place is really nice," she said as a mix of John's tears and sweat dripped onto the pointy black toe of the boot that she kept pressed to his testicles.
Seven minutes went by, though to John it felt like an hour. She talked more about his apartment during that time, but he didn't hear a word. Then her cellphone vibrated.
"Good," was all the woman said to the mysterious person on the other end of the exchange before she ended the call and put her phone away.
"Well, you told the truth," she said. "I have the jewels now and you get to keep your balls. My Russian will be happy. I guess I can stop this now." She lifted her foot off of John's sac and he winced in slight relief. She also retracted the switchblade and returned it to her belt pouch. She stood up and looked around the room to make certain that she didn't leave any clues as to her identity. She even scooped up the cigarette butt. All that she was going to leave behind were the ropes. She tugged at them, now sweat-soaked from John, to make sure they were still holding him tight. They were.
"Your housekeeper, the little skinny woman, she works tomorrow, right?", she said to John.
He nodded his head.
"Good. She can untie you when she gets here."
The lady thief tore off a fresh strip of tape and put it over John's mouth.
"I know that your housekeeper comes in at ten," she said. "That gives you about six hours. It sucks, I know, but it could be worse". She reached down and firmly patted John's balls, which made him wince.
She then climbed out the window where a rope hung down from the roof of the building and disappeared into the night.
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