my lap and your blonde hair bobbing rhythmically up and down—not caring who was watching. I pinched your nipples as you sucked me, and I let you rub your thighs together this time. You came before I did, your face pressed to my spit-slick cock, your breasts clutched tight in my hands, your nipples pulsing with each hard pinch I gave them. You finished me off with your mouth, hungry for my come.
We go to play parties occasionally—parties where S/M aficionados go to show off. You always wear something revealing over your tits—a patent-leather bra, a see-through lace top, a mesh T-shirt. You get wetter, your nipples harder, with every man that looks guiltily at them, lusting, every woman who enviously compliments your “outfit,” knowing what they’re really thinking: “My God, look at those tits.”
When we go down into the dungeon and start to play, I always know what you want. To have your top half stripped and your tits played with until you’re driven crazy. Letting everyone see just how magnificent they are in their full, naked glory. Another kind of performance art, once again focused on your favorite two things in the world: your tits.
In fact, performance art is what gave me the idea for our little scene. I once read an article about a performance artist whose form of art was to put a box around her upper body and walk around the street, encouraging passersby to put their hands through the holes cut in the front of the box and feel her tits. I know you would love to do that, letting anyone who wanted to stroke their fingers around your perfect mounds, pinching the nipples, making you come. Except that you’d never do it, because it wouldn’t be the same for you if people couldn’t see them.
But it’s still a compelling idea. And that’s where I got the brainstorm. How to finally satisfy that need you have to let every man in the world—or at least every man in the room—fuck your tits.
I take you to the play party late, so it’s already going strong and crowded by the time we get there. In the dressing room, I strip you down to your new outfit—peekaboo corset that comes up just under your breasts, leaving them bare, covering only your belly, back, and crotch. It’s nothing more than a string between your asscheeks. Wrist restraints aren’t enough for tonight; I put on a posture collar to keep your head up straight, and slide your arms into a bondage sleeve, cinching it tight so your arms are thrust behind you, forcing you to keep your back up straight too—and present your bare breasts to anyone who cares to look.
Or touch.
With a leash attached to your posture collar, I lead you into the main lounge area. I see a trio of men dressed in leather eyeing your tits admiringly. I lead you over and nudge you in the back.
“Would you like to touch them, Sir?” you ask, as I’ve instructed you to do.
“What?”
“M…my tits,” you stammer. “You can touch them if you like.”
The three men look at me for permission, and I nod. One of them reaches out and begins to caress your tits. You moan softly. I nudge you again in the back.
“Your mouth, too,” you say, your voice hoarse. “You can use your mouth on them.”
The man bends low, his bearded mouth closing around your firm, erect nipple. He begins to suckle you as his friend takes the other breast, licking and sucking it as you whimper gently and squirm against me. I hold you up and force you into their grasp. One of them is finished with you; his friend takes his place, suckling your nipple and biting it roughly. I don’t move to stop him, even though I can tell it’s too intense for you. After all, you’ve got your safeword.
I slide my hand around your body, draw my fingers up your thighs, and wedge them between your legs, under the crotch of your corset. You’re very, very wet.
You’ve attracted a small crowd. I sit you on a stool nearby and hold you there while you invite other men to come suckle your nipples.
We go to play parties occasionally—parties where S/M aficionados go to show off. You always wear something revealing over your tits—a patent-leather bra, a see-through lace top, a mesh T-shirt. You get wetter, your nipples harder, with every man that looks guiltily at them, lusting, every woman who enviously compliments your “outfit,” knowing what they’re really thinking: “My God, look at those tits.”
When we go down into the dungeon and start to play, I always know what you want. To have your top half stripped and your tits played with until you’re driven crazy. Letting everyone see just how magnificent they are in their full, naked glory. Another kind of performance art, once again focused on your favorite two things in the world: your tits.
In fact, performance art is what gave me the idea for our little scene. I once read an article about a performance artist whose form of art was to put a box around her upper body and walk around the street, encouraging passersby to put their hands through the holes cut in the front of the box and feel her tits. I know you would love to do that, letting anyone who wanted to stroke their fingers around your perfect mounds, pinching the nipples, making you come. Except that you’d never do it, because it wouldn’t be the same for you if people couldn’t see them.
But it’s still a compelling idea. And that’s where I got the brainstorm. How to finally satisfy that need you have to let every man in the world—or at least every man in the room—fuck your tits.
I take you to the play party late, so it’s already going strong and crowded by the time we get there. In the dressing room, I strip you down to your new outfit—peekaboo corset that comes up just under your breasts, leaving them bare, covering only your belly, back, and crotch. It’s nothing more than a string between your asscheeks. Wrist restraints aren’t enough for tonight; I put on a posture collar to keep your head up straight, and slide your arms into a bondage sleeve, cinching it tight so your arms are thrust behind you, forcing you to keep your back up straight too—and present your bare breasts to anyone who cares to look.
Or touch.
With a leash attached to your posture collar, I lead you into the main lounge area. I see a trio of men dressed in leather eyeing your tits admiringly. I lead you over and nudge you in the back.
“Would you like to touch them, Sir?” you ask, as I’ve instructed you to do.
“What?”
“M…my tits,” you stammer. “You can touch them if you like.”
The three men look at me for permission, and I nod. One of them reaches out and begins to caress your tits. You moan softly. I nudge you again in the back.
“Your mouth, too,” you say, your voice hoarse. “You can use your mouth on them.”
The man bends low, his bearded mouth closing around your firm, erect nipple. He begins to suckle you as his friend takes the other breast, licking and sucking it as you whimper gently and squirm against me. I hold you up and force you into their grasp. One of them is finished with you; his friend takes his place, suckling your nipple and biting it roughly. I don’t move to stop him, even though I can tell it’s too intense for you. After all, you’ve got your safeword.
I slide my hand around your body, draw my fingers up your thighs, and wedge them between your legs, under the crotch of your corset. You’re very, very wet.
You’ve attracted a small crowd. I sit you on a stool nearby and hold you there while you invite other men to come suckle your nipples.
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