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The party guests had long gone, and the river estuary beyond the picture windows was deserted except for a container ship sluggishly negotiating the drizzle. So, nobody could see him in his steel collar and the breathtakingly expensive Happy Happy Chaste Boi Purity Device(tm) clamped around — and inside! — his genitals. Even so, it felt… wrong to be “dressed” like this in daylight.
The rain rattled on the windows.
He shrugged.
That was the point. This was supposed to be a femdom adventure to start the New Year. It wasn’t like he had a choice anyway. Thanks to his time safe, he couldn’t remove either bondage device for 48 hours and his wife Hannah had only gone along with his kinky plans because he had promised to clear up after her friends.
It had been a good party, but now the minimalist modern interior was cluttered with party debris. Plastic cups and beer bottles littered every surface, the food trays had overflowed the long dining table, and dozens of dancing feet had ground crisps and pretzels into the patches of spilled wine. Worse, the smokers who’d gone out to huddle in the car park had trailed muddy footprints everywhere.
Tristan sighed and hoped the resulting Femdom would be worth it. He trudged into the kitchen to get a big black bag. The guests had also trashed the work surfaces and stainless steel splashbacks, or technically the exploding chili had. There was also a burned-out tray of nachos in the sink.
He yawned and wished he was back in bed next to his warm wife. The party had wound down at 3AM. However, it had taken him an hour to get into the imported Japanese chastity device — just putting on the base ring had gotten him too hard to install the mesh tube with its locking urethral plug. Then of course, he’d been too turned on to sleep, and when he had drifted off, Hannah’s wine-induced snoring had woken him.
“Fuck it,” he said aloud. “She’ll probably be too hung over to do anything anyway.”
But he was damned if he was going to lose the moral high ground.
After a heavy night, Hannah always liked to chill out on the couch, so he started on the living room first.
Painfully conscious of his taut balls bumping his thighs, he picked his way around the grimy floor, stooping to scoop up the debris, steeling himself to go near the picture window--
--which is why it took him half an hour to discover the pair of stockinged feet on the couch: Sleek feminine feet with slender legs, all wrapped in cosy knitted black woolen hosiery. The couch’s back hid the rest of the interloper, who sighed and mumbled something.
Tristan froze. Sweat broke out on his brow. He should sneak away back to the bedroom, tell Hannah to get rid of this uninvited overnight guest. However, he couldn’t seem to move.
The wind picked up. The sky grayed. Cold rain hissed on the windows.
The interloper yawned. She rolled onto her side, curling her legs. The woolen second skin made them seem unreal, as if Photoshopped to perfection.
Was these actually stockings? wondered Tristan. Hannah never wore stockings… except that one time on his birthday. His cock hardened and tried to erect itself. The Happy Chaste Boi Purity Device(tm) kept it pointing down, clamped down against his balls.
Tristan’s mouth went dry. What harm would there be in finding out?
He inched around the corner of the couch.
Now he had a clear view of her curled legs, the shallow curves pressed against each other like a playground for a caressing hand.
Tristan chewed his lip. He really shouldn’t be doing this.
A little further.
Yes!
The hem of the woman’s burgundy velvet dress tented around her thighs, exposing everything: the place where a strip of black lace marked the transition from soft woolen stockings to smooth olive skin; the hollow where thighs met buttocks, and the black G-string with wisps of brown hair escaping its skimpy little triangle of fabric.
Tristan shuddered. His cock heaved against its prison. This was so much better than surfing porn. He was going to wank himself senseless. He started to back away.
His cock twitched forlornly to remind him; no masturbation for two days.
Panic rose up from the pit of Tristan’s stomach and the strength drained from his limbs. He gasped for breath while his lost cock beat like a second heart and suddenly he couldn’t move.
The girl yawned and rolled to her feet. The burgundy fabric cloaked off her thighs. Shoulder-length hair fell into place, covering her neck. She took a pace toward the window, moving like a ballerina, one foot in front of the other, stockinged toes then heels—
And Tristan knew who she was.
Not a girl. A woman. Zarah, another provincial girl made good like Hannah. She was also Hannah’s BFF and the person with whom she’d shared a Lesbian kiss at a high school party something like twenty years ago. She’d always treated Tristan with an indulgent contempt; a phase Hannah was going through. Posh twat, she’d called him.
Despite — admit it; because of — all that, Tristan had always harbored a secret crush on her...
The rain rattled on the windows.
He shrugged.
That was the point. This was supposed to be a femdom adventure to start the New Year. It wasn’t like he had a choice anyway. Thanks to his time safe, he couldn’t remove either bondage device for 48 hours and his wife Hannah had only gone along with his kinky plans because he had promised to clear up after her friends.
It had been a good party, but now the minimalist modern interior was cluttered with party debris. Plastic cups and beer bottles littered every surface, the food trays had overflowed the long dining table, and dozens of dancing feet had ground crisps and pretzels into the patches of spilled wine. Worse, the smokers who’d gone out to huddle in the car park had trailed muddy footprints everywhere.
Tristan sighed and hoped the resulting Femdom would be worth it. He trudged into the kitchen to get a big black bag. The guests had also trashed the work surfaces and stainless steel splashbacks, or technically the exploding chili had. There was also a burned-out tray of nachos in the sink.
He yawned and wished he was back in bed next to his warm wife. The party had wound down at 3AM. However, it had taken him an hour to get into the imported Japanese chastity device — just putting on the base ring had gotten him too hard to install the mesh tube with its locking urethral plug. Then of course, he’d been too turned on to sleep, and when he had drifted off, Hannah’s wine-induced snoring had woken him.
“Fuck it,” he said aloud. “She’ll probably be too hung over to do anything anyway.”
But he was damned if he was going to lose the moral high ground.
After a heavy night, Hannah always liked to chill out on the couch, so he started on the living room first.
Painfully conscious of his taut balls bumping his thighs, he picked his way around the grimy floor, stooping to scoop up the debris, steeling himself to go near the picture window--
--which is why it took him half an hour to discover the pair of stockinged feet on the couch: Sleek feminine feet with slender legs, all wrapped in cosy knitted black woolen hosiery. The couch’s back hid the rest of the interloper, who sighed and mumbled something.
Tristan froze. Sweat broke out on his brow. He should sneak away back to the bedroom, tell Hannah to get rid of this uninvited overnight guest. However, he couldn’t seem to move.
The wind picked up. The sky grayed. Cold rain hissed on the windows.
The interloper yawned. She rolled onto her side, curling her legs. The woolen second skin made them seem unreal, as if Photoshopped to perfection.
Was these actually stockings? wondered Tristan. Hannah never wore stockings… except that one time on his birthday. His cock hardened and tried to erect itself. The Happy Chaste Boi Purity Device(tm) kept it pointing down, clamped down against his balls.
Tristan’s mouth went dry. What harm would there be in finding out?
He inched around the corner of the couch.
Now he had a clear view of her curled legs, the shallow curves pressed against each other like a playground for a caressing hand.
Tristan chewed his lip. He really shouldn’t be doing this.
A little further.
Yes!
The hem of the woman’s burgundy velvet dress tented around her thighs, exposing everything: the place where a strip of black lace marked the transition from soft woolen stockings to smooth olive skin; the hollow where thighs met buttocks, and the black G-string with wisps of brown hair escaping its skimpy little triangle of fabric.
Tristan shuddered. His cock heaved against its prison. This was so much better than surfing porn. He was going to wank himself senseless. He started to back away.
His cock twitched forlornly to remind him; no masturbation for two days.
Panic rose up from the pit of Tristan’s stomach and the strength drained from his limbs. He gasped for breath while his lost cock beat like a second heart and suddenly he couldn’t move.
The girl yawned and rolled to her feet. The burgundy fabric cloaked off her thighs. Shoulder-length hair fell into place, covering her neck. She took a pace toward the window, moving like a ballerina, one foot in front of the other, stockinged toes then heels—
And Tristan knew who she was.
Not a girl. A woman. Zarah, another provincial girl made good like Hannah. She was also Hannah’s BFF and the person with whom she’d shared a Lesbian kiss at a high school party something like twenty years ago. She’d always treated Tristan with an indulgent contempt; a phase Hannah was going through. Posh twat, she’d called him.
Despite — admit it; because of — all that, Tristan had always harbored a secret crush on her...
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