Jardonn's Erotic Tales.com
SUPER BOWL SUNDAY
Part One - Road to the Big Game
"Oh, look honey, your team scored a touchdown. I guess I'll have to give you a little taste. No, wait, that's the other team. Sorry, it's not my fault your guys are no good."
Pity poor Boris. Not only was he being denied the chance to watch his favorite team play for the National Football League's biggest prize, he also was being denied the chance to release his pressurized nuts of their ever-increasing quantity of sperm. But it was a lesson he had to learn, and one he would never forget.
We'll get back to the game later, but what you should know is that Marsha Palfry adored her husband, nearly to the point of worshiping him. And Boris adored her as well, so the problem came about not from the emotions felt between them, but from the inability, or unwillingness, to express those emotions.
Boris was her first spouse and she was his second. His divorce of number one had left him scarred - from 14 years of once-a-week visits with a child who had been taught to despise him; from endless scorn of a domineering woman, administered by way of harassing telephone calls, letters and gossip spread amongst their circle of friends past and present; from a replacement husband, whose constant verbal challenges to the ex-husband's manhood and invitations to do physical battle tested the nerves, because even though Boris knew he could crush the skinny punk-ass like a cockroach under foot, he also knew any form of accepting these challenges would land them all back in court to revisit terms of the divorce and custody.
It was Marsha who had helped him struggle through these last five years of torment, and although he was the perfect provider in terms of money and whatever material needs she might have, the bedroom was a different matter. Here, those emotional scars interfered. Boris Palfry was unwilling to give all of himself to her, fearful of the vulnerability she so desired of him. She yearned to admire, worship and reward his manhood, but was thwarted in every attempt to do so, until their love-making deteriorated to a man-on-top, under-covers-with-lights-out deposit from penis to vagina. She had become nothing more than toilet water spread on their mattress to receive his discharge.
His was the perfect male form, at least in her mind, and Marsha knew it from the moment they met. Introduced by Brian, their mutual friend, she nearly melted when she saw him, and by the time Boris pecked her cheek with a good night kiss, then saw her safely into the apartment before leaving in a gentlemanly manner, she was overjoyed, knowing that 15 years of waiting for the right man had come to fruition.
And she was right, at least in the beginning of their marriage, but the past few months had shown a new Boris emerging - a domineering, belligerent Boris, who more and more seemed to fancy his wife as some sort of servant, put there to jump at his orders. "Get me a beer," he would bellow. "I'm hungry... fix me a sandwich; This coffee's weak... make another pot; The bathroom stinks... clean it."
Unacceptable behavior without question, but Marsha took it without protest. Rather than confrontation, she chose to allow him these aggressions, not because she feared him, but because she couldn't stand the thought of hurting him. She would not have that on her conscious. This sacrifice became a bubbling cauldron beneath the surface, until in desperation she sought advice from someone who should know, Brian Shields, the very man who had introduced them in the first place.
"Oh, hell, Marsha," he said when she telephoned him at his work, "you know what he's been through. He's just playing the bad ass because he's never been able to before."
"Yeah, well, I've about had my fill of it."
"Is he still in Fresno?"
"Yes, he said it'll take a couple of days to repair the main line."
"Ok, I'll come by the house after my shift ends. Wanna fix me dinner?"
"Sure. What time?"
"That will work. See you."
Both men had worked for the railroad since graduating high school. Hired on as apprentice conductors, their employment started in the yards, where they learned to switch, make and break down trains. This also is where the friendship began. From there, Brian became a dispatcher, working in the communication towers to direct trains and crews to their proper assignments. Boris rose to level of crew chief for track maintenance, which would require him to travel when lines were damaged from either natural disasters or railroad accidents.
A derailment in Fresno is what had caused him to be away when Brian knocked on the door of their home. As the avowed bachelor enjoyed a home-cooked meal, Marsha spilled the history of Boris's ever-increasing verbal abuse towards her, sometimes crying, but for the most part nearly shouting, as weeks of pent-up rage were released.
He was a good listener, and when it was clear she had exhausted herself Brian finagled her towards his remedy.
"Boris is pig-headed, Marsha. He's been that way as long as I've known him. I told him a hundred times about that woman. She was bad news. I could see it, but he couldn't. All he could see was that juicy twat between her legs. And believe you me, as soon as she had him hitched up and legal, she led him around like a whipped dog, using that pussy of hers for a leash."
"I know all of that, Brian," she sighed with exasperation, while clearing the table of dirty dishes. "But, hell, it's not my fault. Why's he treating me like shit?"
"Because he can. For the first time in years, he suddenly realizes he can throw his weight around and get away with it. That's because you let him get away with it."
"Damn," Marsha cupped both hands over her face to fight back tears, "I love him so much. I don't want to cross him, but he won't let me near him at all. Not anymore."
"Maybe a little crossing is what he needs."
"I could never hurt him, Brian, if that's what you mean."
"It's not about hurting him. It's about helping. Problem is, he doesn't realize he's hurting you. So, he needs to learn that there are consequences for his actions. He should be taught how to appreciate his good fortune, which means you."
Marsha's resistance slowly faded to curiosity, then intrigue, as Brian made his suggestions for repair. By the time he'd finished with the spicy details, she was tingling with excitement and training session number one took place that very evening. Marsha Palfry and Brian Shields traveled quickly down the road to saving their best friend's marriage.
* * *
Part 2 - Pre-Game Hype
"Holy crap, Boris, the Chargers are going to the Super Bowl."
Boris reached over the arm of the couch to give him a high-five, "Un-fucking-believable, first time ever. Marsha, two more beers. Me and Brian's got an AFC Championship to celebrate."
This had been the two men's passion, to huddle before the television set every week during the season to watch their beloved San Diego Chargers. Of course, all of that had ended with Boris's first marriage, but after a six-year interruption, the tradition had been renewed - and continued with wife Marsha, she being a bit more tolerant of man things taking place in her home.
"Ok, buddy, in two weeks, my place."
"Can I come?" Marsha sat down two cans for the boys.
"Sure," Brian smiled and winked, "the more the merrier."
"Oh, shit no, you ain't coming." Boris popped open the can, aiming it towards his wife in hopes of splattering her clothes with a few flying droplets. "You don't want to be around his place. It's a pig sty. For men only."
Marsha sat in a nearby chair and dropped her head, pretending to be hurt, while waiting for Brian to fix the problem.
"Hell, Boris, Marsha doesn't care about that. And besides, we'll need someone to wait on us. Don't want to miss any of the action, right?"
He glared at her, as she sat there looking dejected, then Boris spoke to his pal, "I guess she could be useful."
After slamming down the can of beer, purposefully missing a coaster she had placed on the table, he growled, "Marsha, look at me." She raised her head. "You can come, but you better not speak unless we ask you. I don't want any distractions. And you sure as hell better not walk in front of that TV screen. Understood?"
The franchise known as the Chargers moved from Los Angeles to San Diego, California in 1961, and although they won the American Football League championship three years after that, nobody remembered or cared. That was before the merger with the NFL, before Lamar Hunt had concocted the idea of a "Super Bowl". 33 years later, they had finally made it all the way to the title game. This was important, and so, an all-day event.
Boris and Marsha knocked on Brian's door around 11 am - he with two 12-packs of beer, she with two sacks full of finger food - three hours before game time, three hours of pre-game hype. While the boys watched the interviews and analysis, bitching about what they perceived to be media bias towards the favored San Francisco 49ers, Marsha puttered in the kitchen, filling orders shouted by her husband and occasionally joining them to silently feign interest in the broadcast. She carefully chose a seat closest to the kitchen, so as not to risk blocking the television screen when errands were requested of her.
The last beer for Boris, that being the sedative-spiked beer, was served during the singing of the National Anthem, so that by the time San Francisco was closing in to score their first touchdown, a mere three minutes into the game clock, his eyelids were like anvils.
"Damn, Brian, I'm tired as hell," he sat up in his chair, struggling to stay awake. "I can't... keep my eyes open."
Brian looked at Marsha, then smiled. "Biggest game ever, man. Are you drunk or something?"
"No... no... it's not that. Maybe... a little nap... I just... need a... ..."
Boris could hear the football broadcast when he awoke, but found himself far removed from that comfortable chair. They had draped him face up along the length of a flat, 18-inch high bench, one which Brian normally used for weightlifting. His head rested at one end of the cushioned surface, while the legs were split wide and pulled taut on either side of the lower-middle. With heels resting on the floor, each of Boris's ankles were wrapped in rope, the opposite ends of which ran about 10 feet along the floor, ending at a couch against the wall opposite the television. Here the ropes were knotted to front feet of the couch, one furthest left and the other furthest right. Pulled tightly, the ropes held his legs bound in a downward, V-shaped stretch.
His wrists were also looped in rope, with each end trailing in opposite directions to circle behind a heavy, solid wood cabinet housing the TV and other electronics. Boris's arms were flared with elbows nearly straight and his wrists, four feet apart, were pulled down to a level midway between the floor and bench. This combination of shoulders and arms also formed a V shape, while his chest was forced high into the air, thus flattening and stretching his middle-section. So, the overall appearance was that of a man on an alter, stretched like the letter X, everything from head to buttocks atop the surface, everything else below. And one final note: every thread of the man's clothing had been stripped away.
Recognizing his confines to be Brian's living room, Boris strained his neck to satisfy his primary subject of curiosity - the game score: San Francisco 7, San Diego 0. The bench had been placed perpendicular to the television screen, with the head of Boris four feet away. After his tortured glance there, he scanned his surroundings. On the floor lay an arsenal of hardware - metal clips, hooks and rings, a roll of duct tape, some sort of walkie-talkie or remote-control device, plastic bottles and a few unidentifiable items, the purpose of which he could not guess.
First, he tested the wrist restraints to find he could move his arms a few inches left or right, but zero inches in any other direction. Next came the legs, which he tried to draw nearer to his torso, the result being no movement of the couch whatsoever. So, he tried to lift upwards, but despite his powerfully-built frame, the result was the same. All he could accomplish was a one-inch rise of his heels from the floor, taking what little slack existed from the two ropes.
As Boris continued to struggle, he heard the voice of his wife, "Look at those flexing muscles, Brian. Isn't he the most beautiful sight you've ever seen?"
Standing at the kitchen doorway were Marsha and Brian, both naked, except for a chain-link collar fastened tightly around Brian's neck. Tied into a slip-knot, the chain looped through itself just below his Adam's apple, then the free end trailed to Marsha's hand, which she used to violently jerk downward and repeat her question, "Answer me. Isn't he beautiful?"
Jolted, Brian immediately fell to his knees and obeyed, "Yes, Madam. He is a very beautiful man. Please don't hurt me again."
"Heel, dog. Do what I say. Don't make me waste any more energy on you."
"Marsha," Boris shouted in stunned disbelief, "what the hell are you doing? Untie these ropes."
"Oh, honey, I can't untie you. Those are Brian's knots. I don't know anything about it."
"God damn it! Let me off this thing. We've got to see this game."
"Screw you and your asinine game," she yanked the chain, forcing Brian to an erect knee-stand, hands clutching the neck chain. "Those losers don't have a chance anyway. You can hear it, can't you? They're already getting their ass kicked."
"You crazy bitch." He strained with all his might to break free. "Brian, do something. Marsha's flipped out on us."
She pulled the leash and moved towards her prisoner, forcing Brian to crawl and follow. "Brian can't do shit. He's here to serve me. He'll do whatever I say for a taste of this pussy. By the time I'm finished, neither of you will be the least bit concerned with that fucking game."
Boris gallantly struggled against his bindings. "I'll strangle you first chance I get. Do you hear me? Let me go, NOW!"
Standing confidently beside the bench, she gave another yank of the chain, "Here, boy, it's time to shut his god damn mouth."
Brian dutifully picked up the roll of duct tape he had placed on the floor, tore off a strip and brought it towards the prisoner's face. To avoid this, Boris violently turned his head side to side, until Marsha was forced to secure him between her hands. "Can't you do anything right? There, now slap it on there."
With lips sealed, Boris's attempts at protest were garbled, and so abandoned as useless. Meanwhile, Marsha resumed her taunting. "Don't fret, honey. I won't let Brian hurt you. I'm your super bowl, now." She lifted one leg over him and straddled the bench, leaving her fur-framed snatch to hover above his bulging eyes, then she yanked Brian down to kneel between her husband's head and the TV. "Stay right there, Fido."
With her slave motionless, she dropped the trailing chain from her hand and allowed it to fall to the floor, where it hung against Brian's chest and belly. Moving behind him, she took Brian's left wrist into her hand and bent the elbow, placing his hand onto the small of his back. "Don't move," she ordered, while repeating the process with his right hand to leave that forearm stacked above the left.
Grabbing the free end of chain, she pulled it between his legs and yanked hard, which brought pleading from her servant. "Ow, Madam, please, the chain is so tight. It's crushing my nuts."
"Shut it, you cur mutt," Marsha growled, as she kept the chain taut and brought it up through his butt crack towards the forearms. After grabbing a nearby D-ring, Marsha looped the chain around the forearms and wrists repeatedly, using all of the length to keep everything tight. "You'll take what I give you and like it." She locked the chain to itself with D-ring through four links, thus completing his restraint.
Brian dropped his head and bent forward, giving slack to the chain and relief to his scrotum, but was violently jerked backwards, as Marsha grabbed the links behind his neck. Immediately, his back arched and chest thrust forward, which again tightened the chain around his neck and under his balls.
"Do not move an inch," she sneered. "Do it again and I'll crush your gonads with my very own hands. I'll crush them like jelly. Got it, bitch?"
"Yes, Madam, I'll be good. Just don't hurt me."
"I'll do as I please and you can shut your trap. Only speak when I tell you. Otherwise, I'll slap some tape on your pussy mouth, too."
Silent, her servant was motionless, chest thrust forward and belly sucked in, as Madam Palfry once again straddled her husband and faced the television screen. Placing both palms onto his chest to steady herself, she brought up her legs one at a time and placed her knees into his flat, tight abdominal muscles. "Now, Boris Palfry," she mocked, "lately you seem to think you can treat me like a pile of horse manure. Do you think I married you so I could be your personal slave? Jumping every time you bark? Waiting on you hand and foot? Night and day?"
He made no attempt to answer. Just a slight groan, especially when Marsha ground her kneecaps back and forth into his hard gut.
"Well, I can tell you I did not," she answered for him. "And beginning right now, you will learn to show me some respect."
Boris laid there dumbfounded. Just beyond his head was the defeated Brian, his long-time friend, bound with a single chain running from his neck, down the center of his chest and belly, under the scrotum and up to locked-behind-the-back arms. Above him, his once-inferior and obedient wife, glaring down with menacing cruelty, while ruthlessly knee-impaling his belly to pulp. And in the background, the play-by-play man announced, "4th and 8, the Chargers will have to punt."
"Of course," she sneered, "they'll be doing that all day." She removed her knees and stood to straddle his chest. Placing her hands onto her own nipples, she delicately rubbed and squeezed, then slid her palms down her middle section to touch her vagina. She widened her opening and invited him to observe. "Look, honey. Would you like to stir this super bowl? Stir it with that big dick of yours? The one you never let me see? Or touch? Or taste?"
Glancing behind her, she saw her husband's penis laying limp, so she plopped down to sit on his chest, then resumed rubbing her own nipples. "Since you don't seem interested, perhaps dog-boy might like a taste. Would that turn you on, darling? To see your buddy molest your wife?"
Boris stared in awe, as Madam Palfry's titty massage caused juices to seep out of her spread-open pussy and ooze onto his chest. Further tormenting him, she moved her hips side to side, smearing her lubricant onto his manly hairs, while adding verbal insults along the way. "Look, sweetheart. See what just a little touching does to me? If you'd ever bother to try it yourself, you'd know these things."
Reaching out with her right hand, Marsha grabbed the left nipple of her chained servant, while continuing to stimulate her own. "How about you, Rex? Would you like me to rip off your tit?"
Between finger and thumb, she viciously twisted and pulled the tip towards her, which caused him to lean forward with a whimper. "I told you not to move, cunt." Grabbing a handful of hair behind his head, she forced it back with her left hand, while pulling on his nipple with her right. He reacted with a muted whine, coupled with a slight grunt, but obeyed her order of verbal silence.
"You are the lucky dog. Since my husband has no interest in me, I will allow you to suck on my titties. You better be professional about it, or you'll lose both of yours."
She pulled him forward by the length of chain running down his chest, forced him to stand, then directed his mouth towards her left breast. Gently, he engulfed her erect nipple between his lips and sucked, soon incorporating his tongue into the action. For Boris, this was a maddening view. His pal's hardened cock bobbed above his forehead. His wife's orb became saliva-slicked. Lips and tongue lovingly caressed and stimulated, while satisfied moans drifted from the female recipient. With a heightened gusto, Brian joined her chorus of audible expressions, slavishly praising the soft-skinned balloon and its ever-hardening tip.
Naturally, Boris felt anger - anger from being bound and helpless, unable to watch his precious football game; anger and disappointment in his wife's vulgar, inexplicable behavior; anger bordering on rage from being forced to witness her self-instigated desecration.
But there also was a somewhat mysterious, yet undeniable emotion slowly dissolving the first, and that was a yearning - a yearning to break free of his ropes and become a participant, rather than a witness; a desire to lay his own mouth and his own tongue onto her tempting breasts; a longing to unleash his own mighty cock to, in Marsha's words, "stir this super bowl".
He did not realize it when his penis came to life. Blood filled the spongy tissues inside its walls and forced his pecker to rise, then flip onto his flattened belly. The subtle smack of skin touching skin did not escape Marsha's attention, and she spun around to confirm it. Success! A manly tool worthy of his manly physique was aching to join the action. She reached back and clutched her husband's cock into curled fingers, gently squeezing, before updating him on the football game. "Oh, look honey, your team scored a touchdown. I guess I'll have to give you a little taste. No, wait, that's the other team. Sorry, it's not my fault your guys are no good."
14 to 0, still in the first quarter, a long ordeal for Charger fans was well under way.
"Time to wire him up. Back off, bitch."
Marsha remained seated on her husband's chest, while slave-boy Brian removed his mouth from her tit. She raised off her husband and retrieved a ring made of rubber, carefully slipping it over Boris' cock shaft, then around and under his ball sac. On the outer surface of the ring at opposite sides were two tiny, metal pins - receptors. Grasping a battery-operated remote device, she turned a dial, sending a small electrical current throughout the innards of the cock ring. A gentle vibration enlivened Boris' cock and balls.
The prisoner's eyes widened, beads of sweat broke onto his forehead, as his wife's tender, yet near-psychotic gaze mystified him. What were her intentions? Was she truly angry to the point of inflicting serious damage? Or was it merely a game, a form of pretend punishment designed to please her? And why was Brian only putting up a half-assed resistance? Unable to verbalize his concerns, with no "safe" or "out" words given to him, Boris was forced to trust that his captors knew what they were doing. He only hoped.
Tingling vibrations encompassed an ever-hardening penis. Bulbous balls ballooned. Manly groans rumbled underneath duct tape. Another notch turned on the dial caused Boris' chest to expand, back to arch, belly to flatten and pelvis to thrust upwards. Boris Palfry, fully charged both in mind and body, launched his mighty cock high into the air and reached for the unreachable.
She resumed sitting on his chest and slid her ass to the end of his sternum. Set the remote on the floor nearby, and then delicately fingernail-flicked her husband's nipple tips. "Boris, honey," she lightly scraped his stretched tits with her nails, "you probably didn't hear it, but the Chargers got a touchdown. Are you happy?"
A muffled "Mmm" and nod of the head was his reply.
"Your man-tits make me drip," she opened his right one between finger and thumb, then covered it with her mouth, sucking and massaging with lips and tongue. Releasing it, she wet-rubbed its tip with her finger. "Are you still happy?"
A Neanderthal-sounding "Ungh" rumbled under duct tape.
Sharp-edged nails pressed down onto the erect tips of his nipples. A manly groan. More beads of forehead sweat. "Did I ever tell you how much I love your nose?" She raised into a squat and inched forward. "Sculptured, strong," her moistened labia wings dangled above his face, "just like you, just like all of you." She dropped her taint onto his tape-covered mouth, smothering his nostrils with her juicy puss. "Breathe, darling. You deserve this. Suck with all your strength."
He lustfully inhaled her, first from want, then for oxygen, very little of which was allowed. An inch was given and he recovered, then again was smothered, as his majestic nose disappeared into a sizzling cut of fur-lined filet.
"Come here, slave," she summoned the collared one.
Once within reach, she grabbed the chain trailing down his chest and forced him to kneel at the head-end of the bench. "This is for you, cur, not him." Lifting her hips to re-position herself, she gave slave the green light, "Now, feast."
With his wife's aromatic ass rim hovering inches above his nose, the prisoner was forced to watch the slave eat pussy. A wet tongue expertly teased the hooded cover, then delved into its pulsating meat. Probing deeper, a gradual intensity produced a frothing combo - male, oral spit, female, vaginal slickum - a heavenly mixture dribbling down into the burning eyes of a man tormented.
He now was fully aware of his neglected cock, gyrating with electrically-charged energy, lustfully bouncing on his belly with each accelerated heartbeat. Lubricant of his own making splattered onto his tightened, writhing abdominal muscles, darkening his fur trail with beads of his pre-orgasmic syrup.
Sounds stimulated. Slurping suction, moans of ecstasy - high-pitched, low-pitched - echoed from ceiling and walls, usurping whatever drivel beamed from the nearby boob tube. Female hands cupped female breasts. Fingers and thumbs pinched hardened tips. Pre-orgasmic squeaks crescendoed to shrieks, then were silenced, as Madam P clutched the dog-collar chain and viciously cast her lover aside, "Well done, whore. Now, get out of my sight."
Taking the remote, she stepped away from the bench to absorb a glorious side-view of her bound prisoner. Writhing, flexing, thrusting into nothingness, his agony only further heightened the intense pressure building in her loins. She longed to mount him - to finish him, to finish herself, but all such thoughts were to be squashed. Unknown heights of pleasure were yet to be explored, and her bladder reminded her that other issues should be addressed. Madam P turned the dial to zero and set the remote on the floor.
"I see that it's halftime, and I will watch the festivities. It's the only part of your moronic marathon of monotonous broadcast that interests me. Oh, and FYI, the score is Forty-Niners 28, Chargers 7. Your situation seems hopeless, but relax, my darling. Perhaps you can mount a comeback."
She met Brian as he exited the bathroom and they conversed out of character. "Did you pee?"
"Did I ever."
"Uh, how?" She stepped behind him, unlocked the D ring and released his arms.
"Lid was up. I just stood over it and did my thing."
"You men, always leaving the lid up." She gently kissed his cheek, and then offered her opinion of the first half. "God, Brian, this is so much fun."
"How's he doing?"
"Looks ok to me. I turned off the voltage, so you better get the bottle and let him pee."
She closed the door and emptied her bladder.
* * *
Part 3 - Second-half Blowout
As Brian removed the urine-filled bottle from a mostly faded penis, Marsha brought a chair from the kitchen table, positioned it to the right of her husband's chest, and sat facing the television. In her left hand, the cock ring controller; in her right, a bottle of isopropyl alcohol. "Bet you really had to pee, huh?" He nodded. "Would you like another beer?" He nodded. "Well, I suppose you can have... Oh, look, honey, there's Patti LaBelle. I just love her."
Boris Palfry did not strain to look, instead turning his head away in frustration. Nor did he bother to look when he felt a wet finger touch his right nipple. He had seen the bottle and knew its contents were harmless, but what he did not know was the effect it would have on his stretched and sensitive knob. After an initial burn, a stinging coolness caused its skin to contract, forcing his tip to elevate well above his chest. A layer to his left nipple was followed by a second one to his right, and a finger gently rubbed the liquid in small circles.
Turning the dial to number one, she laid the remote onto the center of his downward-sloping stomach, and he raised his head to witness another brutal assault on his defenseless nipples. Boris was confronted with a new dilemma. His nipples were responding to the stinging of alcohol and massaging of fingers. Outside, the circles expanded from heat, then shrank from cold. Inside, amazing sensations of masculine power overwhelmed, causing him to feel as though he were some sort of manly hero. Lowering his head, he felt the ropes binding his wrists and pulled against them - not to escape, but to flex, pose and display his incredible physique. Boris had never fancied himself to be such a man, but this assault on his nipples seemed to be changing his attitude.
"Hey, you," Marsha barked to her servant, just arrived from dumping the urine bottle, "put some on his nuts." He reached for the alcohol, but was greeted with a backhanded slap to his cheek. "Not my bottle, you moron. Get another one. And keep quiet. Tony Bennett's about to perform."
The prisoner's cock was quickly resurrected. A one-notch turn of the dial caused it to majestically rise, slide along his thigh and rest in the crook between his leg and pelvic bone. Fresh coats of alcohol onto finger-massaged tits completed the ascent, as his involuntary scrotum clinch launched his cock into the air. Relaxing the clinch brought his hardened pole slamming down onto his belly. An initial layer onto Boris' testicles, compliments of Brian, caused his pulsating tool to dance upon flattened abdominal muscle, leaving dots of slick discharge with each contact.
Burning, stinging, cooling, the alcohol attacked Boris' nipples and nuts simultaneously, transporting the bound hero into fantasy land. His head lifted. He admired his own glorious form. Real restraints dramatized the image of pretend torture. Testosterone raged throughout his bloodstream, as he struggled against the ropes, flexing himself in a mighty pose of resolve.
He gave no forethought to what was happening. They had taken him to a place of exploration, a place maddeningly exciting. With no intention of leaving, his mind joined his body in participation.
Beneath the tape, his lips mumbled manly expressions of defiance. "Damn sons-a-bitches, think you can break me. I'm too much man for both of you."
Marsha could see, feel and hear what was happening. The protective walls her husband had built for himself were crumbling, and she prepared to complete the demolition.
"Halftime is over." She stepped towards the television, pressed the power off, and glared at Boris. "So is the football game, as far as you're concerned. Your contest is with me now, tough guy."
To the collared servant she growled, "Wet those nuts every 30 seconds, if you can count that far."
Lifting the remote from her bound prisoner's stomach, she turned the dial to three and set it on the bench near its foot end. Her servant, who was straddling the bench near Boris's knees and bent forward towards the target, continued to transfer stimulating liquid from fingers to nuts, carefully painting Boris' swollen orbs on top, bottom, underneath and in between. Isolated and lifted by the vibrating ring, the prisoner's testicles surpassed human qualities, appearing to Brian as the balls of a mighty bull - vibrant, full of life, full of impatiently waiting sperm.
A manly groan accompanied a pelvic thrust. The fully-hardened cock stood, suspended in mid-air, suspended in time, seconds counted by the Madam... 7... 8... 9... 10, until finally, the electrified tool collapsed onto his belly, only to react from contact of corona to muscle, thus rising to begin the count anew.
For Marsha, a dramatic side-view brought salivation in her mouth and between her thighs. Her hero strained against the wrist-binding ropes. Fists clenched. Chest expanded. Nipple tips pierced the air, while exaggerated exhales flattened his belly. Massive thighs tensed. Sinewy calf ligaments contorted. Manly feet undulated - toes curling forward, toes arching backward, and all the while, he stared at her with eyes lustful, yearning, begging, the expressions so long denied her, the emotions so long concealed, finally stripped and laid bare.
Sweat - glistening, masculine sweat, highlighted every line, every curve, every bulge of his body, and the language it spoke tempted her, inviting her to ravage. She knelt beside his flexing belly and heaving chest. She listened to each release of air. She heard deep-toned, guttural, cave-man grunts. The dominant male demanded his woman, but was powerless to take her.
"Why do you make me torture you?" Her right hand slid under his cock head to deep-massage his brick-wall belly. "No one wants you to suffer this way." Her left hand lay flat on his chest, moving side to side, savagely rubbing his erect nipples. "I can't bear to see you like this." Her pressed his stomach, planting kisses. "You are so strong." Tongue tasted his sweat. "Such a man." Nose inhaled his musk. "I will worship you like a god. I will put you on a pedestal, the manliest man ever to grace the earth."
Into her fist she clutched his cock shaft, lifting it to vertical. Out of the tube came masculine paste, which oozed from his slit to coat his mushroom head.
"Hold this," she ordered to Brian. "Hold it in your mouth."
The servant wrapped his wet lips over the bulging cock head, stopping at the umbrella-like rim extending from the shaft. In response, Boris convulsed and tried to thrust his pelvis upwards, but was thwarted by his wife's hands, which were firmly planted into his belly.
"Clamp it tightly," she whispered to slave," but don't work it. If you make him shoot, I will castrate you. Do you hear me? I will literally remove your dangling balls. Cut them and eat them."
With curved fingers, she manipulated Boris' hard-muscled abdominals. Her victim arched his back, tightening his middle, then dramatically exhaled, relaxing his middle. She heard him groan, saw him strain his legs - not to pull them together, but to push them apart. He spread them wider, begging for a resumption of testicle torture.
Again with a whisper Marsha ordered to Brian, "Layer his 'nads."
Boris raised his head when he felt renewed stinging on his nuts, first looking to her, then to his cock, its mushroom hidden by the lips of his best friend. The idea of having a man's mouth upon his penis might have caused apprehension under normal circumstances. The idea that Brian might be capable of such an act had never occurred to him. This circumstance, however, was far from normal, and considering where he had been and where he was going, neither fact was given a thought. With an ecstatic, upward roll of his eyes, followed by a muted, agonizingly long and breathily-released, "Uuunnnggghhh", Boris collapsed. He was surrendered, willing to accept anything they wanted to give him.
The moment for which she had so long waited had arrived. Her eyes locked onto it, trance-like. Inhaling caused it to become thick, solid, impenetrable. Exhaling caused it to explode with powerful lines and curves. A singular, deep ridge formed at the pit of his stomach, ran to his navel and disappeared beneath one line of narrow, then widening man fur.
Into this heaven she buried her face. On the surface, soft and cushioned, but just beneath was a wall of concrete, a bunker of protection. Breathing through her mouth, she pressed down harder, and harder, but the barrier could not be broken. Here was the ultimate definition of masculine strength. Here was nothing but muscle, no bone to protect the innards. Here was the apex of a man's vulnerability, for regardless of whatever fat might be collected and stored there, the muscle underneath, when tensed, was masterfully designed to protect him from any assault. To surrender it, to offer it up to the whims of another, this is the pinnacle of trust.
Her man, her husband, gave her this gift. His belly was 100 percent rock-solid, but she felt it give way beneath her. She thanked him for her gift with kisses - not delicate kisses, but deep, penetrating, face-burying kisses. Every inch was attacked, from the pit of his stomach to his belly button and beyond. From his pubic hair, she began her return to his stomach with tongue licks - not dry, tip-of-the-tongue licks, but full-appendage, loaded with saliva, sliming tongue licks. She tasted and removed his sweat, while leaving behind her spit.
And then she came to the center of it all - his super bowl. Where life itself had begun. The knot. The place where momma fed him before he left that world of darkness. The doctor had tied his knot so you could see it. The rim of his belly button framed what was, in Marsha's mind, the most beautiful gob of skin she could ever imagine. It laid ever so slightly beneath the belly itself, clearly visible and readily available. Her tongue teased, first moistening the edged rim, then moving like a whirlpool, round and round and gradually down, finding its way to his belly button. She wet-scraped its surface, then used the tip of her tongue to drill him a new hole. Streams of spit ran down her tongue and into this hole, spilling over the rim to flow in all directions, tributaries forming on his belly's surface.
Marsha knew she had tamed him. Her belly button worship brought painfully pleasured moans each time he exhaled. And, as further proof, these air releases seemed to last forever. After breathing out, he'd hold position and force his belly to remain in its most flattened, most vulnerable stature, while the woman's tongue mercilessly impaled his navel knot.
Brian also knew. He watched the belly attack in amazement, while he continued to alcohol rub Boris' testicles. In Brian's mouth, Boris' penis swelled to incredible strength. A constant buzz came from the cock ring at its base, but at the head, where Brian's lips held firm, rippling reverberations exploded. Pulses of power coinciding with each heartbeat pounded on Brian's oral vise, triggered by the slavish tongue of a woman's belly-button worship. Brian dared not move any of his mouth parts. Any added stimulation to Boris' cock would push their hero over the edge, and Brian had no desire to receive the man's seed. That was reserved for Marsha - the only reason for any of this.
Clutching the shaft of her husband's cock, she motioned for Brian to release him, then laid the surging man-tool onto a glistening-with-spit belly. "Stay still." She took his dangling chain and stood. "Come with me." With a gentle tug of chain, she guided him to the end of the bench, then whispered, "Get down there and lick his foot."
Stepping over the bench, she straddled and smothered her victim's writhing torso. His cock was wedged between titties; his gut assaulted by lips, face and tongue; his chest and nipples ravaged by palms, fingers and nails. She undulated towards his contorting face, sliding inch by inch, mixing his sweat with hers. Hardened breasts scraped along his dramatic, sloping abdomen, as her stomach crushed his tortured cock head. Climbing the mountain, her tits arrived upon his chest. Her salivating pussy hole lingered atop his phallic masterpiece, then moved onward to further slime his stomach. Hands and fingers clutched his hair and massaged his scalp, while lips and tongue moved from one tormented nipple to the other, kissing, sucking, licking.
Breathless, she sat upright, clamping his chest between her thighs. The man beneath her, the pitiful, tortured soul, desperately lifted his head, straining to bury an anguished face into that tantalizing V, so close, yet so out of reach. "You are mine, Boris Palfry," she lifted off of him and maneuvered her twat above his head. "You are mine forever," she violently ripped the tape from his mouth and replaced it with her pussy. "I'm never letting you go. You belong to me. Understand?"
Garbled agreement intermingled with thirst-quenching slurps.
"Only I can give you what you must have."
His lips encompassed the top and bottom of her vaginal slit, while his tongue snaked its way into darkness, searching for the little G, the vibrating peter. His prize, her clitoris.
"You are a god to me. I must worship, but you must sacrifice all. I will have every inch of you, or I will have none of you."
Non-verbal acceptance came from below. His mouth could only express a gurgling, "Mmm hmm," as he frantically choked on tasty juices.
Her body shuddered when his tongue made contact with her hyper-sensationally-sensitive clittie. Her voice squeaked when his tongue's wet-sandpapered surface scraped what it had found. But this was not the orgasm she had worked so hard to achieve. The snack of snatch was his reward. His feasting on her, for her, was merely a stretching exercise. Preparation for the kickoff. A hole clearing a path to the end zone. She stood. Took her pussy away from him, so she could give it back to him.
Finally able to speak, Boris said nothing. He watched in wonder as she straddled the bench with both bottles of alcohol in her grasps. She dumped the contents of both, saturating his chest and belly with mesmerizing, hot-to-cold liquid. Into her hand she took his still-gyrating penis. Held it vertical. Covered its bulging cock-head with her labia, and lowered herself upon him.Her muscles controlled the screw. She angled his pussy-buster to make direct contact with her yearning clitoris, then hugged the thickness of his massive cock. She put the vaginal death clamp on him, squeezing, rising, crushing while slamming back down. She took his full penetration, then half, then full, while her anaconda grip assaulted his thickness, reducing him by half. Up-stroke, down-stroke, she set the rhythm, increasing tempo, cock primed, clitoris primed. Pole plowed hole, and the milk did flow.
They froze in a statuesque pose - the bound-but-dominant male beneath, his back curved to the maximum his bindings would allow, the praising female above, her hands pressed into his tightened belly. Neither participant breathed. Eyes shut, mouths agape, all movement was confined to contracting muscles of sex, until, as if on cue they violently exhaled, emitting animalistic cries of unbridled pleasure. Collapsing, contorting, convulsing, they simultaneously erupted to vanquish all pent-up frustrations, all secretive sadness, to enter a magical world they would never leave. He belonged to her - all of him, and she fell forward to press her lips onto his, to flatten her breasts on his chest, leaving no separation between.
This is the sight that greeted Brian when he stood, his own personal satisfaction, as he absorbed the mesmerizing reunion of this man and this woman. With a couple dozen strokes of his hand, he spewed his own seed, not caring upon whom or what it landed. He had brought them together in the beginning; he had guided their rediscovery on Super Bowl Sunday. With a woman's head resting peacefully on a man's chest, that man's penis buried and basking in the loving confines of unyielding devotion, Brian Shields reached down to the bench, turned the dial and moved it to zero.
Super Bowl XXIX was a sad, sad day for many San Diego residents, but not for the Palfry's, nor their best friend. In fact, their Super Bowl party continued into the next morning, transferred from the living room to the bedroom. Without ropes, Boris proved to be that manly god his wife claimed him to be, sacrificing himself to the praise of two, then satisfying both with other-worldly eruptions. Brian was the swing man and oral expert, equally excited to pleasure the snatch of one or cock of the other - and everything in between.
As for the Palfry's together, all was complete. No need for him to give commands - politely or otherwise, because she knew exactly what he needed at all times. And when she was ready, his body was hers. With plenty of light, tied up or no, Boris gladly posed and flexed, spouting dramatic expressions of the tortured hero, before flooding her with everything she desired. All of him, that's what Marsha demanded, and Boris could not be satisfied any other way.
Do not pity Boris. He is the happiest man in the world.
Jardonn's Erotic Tales.com