I was given one star for every orgasm. To be fair, I had not kept count, guessing the number at above twelve but below thirty. Truth be told, it could’ve been over thirty considering how long we’d camped out in the swing, but eh… Our scene was about the fun of predicament bondage, fisting, vibrators, and good conversation. The shiny stuff was just extra.
I greatly enjoy rising to challenges, so getting up into a sex swing with both my legs frogged, one arm chicken winged, my wrists connected, and a tight chest harness around my torso was just the recipe for great fun.
This was to be my reward for finding “the spot”. Crawling around on the carpeted floor, my knees and one elbow ached, searching for some unknown place. Still, it was amusing, figuring out how my body would work caught up in my bindings.
When first tasked with my ascent, I asked for assistance from a friend. Once they heard what my reward would be, they said I had to earn my fisting. I attempted to do it myself.
Thankfully, a small metal piece of play equipment sat in front of the swing. First I hooked my shoulders in the basket. Leaning against it, I got my feet up on the equipment and began wiggling myself up and into the swing. I managed to get myself half way in, to just above my hips. But with my legs still bound, it was becoming obvious that though I had performed particularly amazing considering the predicament, I was not going to make it all the way in. Anatomy and all.
With my legs released, I slithered the rest of the way up. With some assistance from our audience, we got a chuck (a safer sex disposable blanket, for those not up on scene lingo).
Time for the screaming.
“May I cum?”
“Yes, you don’t have to ask permission.”
“You look really pretty. Well, you always look pretty, but especially now with the rope and your tears.”
My first few orgasms were just from fisting. And then I was asked if I liked vibrators. Hmm, do I like vibrators?
My wrists still connected, once up in the sling they were secured to a small length of chain hanging from the top bracing. With some effort, I discovered I was able to hold the vibrator with my fingertips if I had one arm up and one arm down.
And then the orgasms started rolling, one after the other. A hand inside me pounding. A Wahl vibrator going. I screamed. I cried. I cursed. I whimpered. It was marvelous.
I’m not quite sure how we started our conversation. I know I mentioned how I had, during previous fistings, been asked to count back from one hundred by sevens, recite a poem, etc. So we started talking, with a fist still in my cunt.
I love ligature marks. LOVE THEM. But during our chatting about “experimental” video games, I asked for my wrists to be released. I had already rotated them twice and could feel it was time for me to stop tormenting them. I didn’t want to completely take off the rope, though. My right wrist still held onto its cuff.
“I could feel that, when you coughed, and now that you’re laughing.”
As we chatted, I was sparring with the vibrator, though I did orgasm thrice while we spoke. Even so, I kept engaged in the conversation. It would’ve been rude to do otherwise.
“How long do you want to go?”
“That is a loaded question. I’ve gone as long at an hour and forty five minutes before, so however long is fine with me.”
“Okay good, cause I’m not done yet.”
Smoothly we transitioned from talking to fist fucking again. I came some more, screamed some more, and yelled their name over and over. I really like doing that, broadcasting to the world who is making me cum. I find it pleasurable as an expression of my ecstasy and whomever I happen to be playing with seems to enjoy it as well. At least, I’ve had no complaint.
I only had to ask for a slowdown once, a testament to the abilities of the person I played with.
“Tell me if this hurts. I want this to be enjoyable for you.”
And it was.
Once we did finish, and cleaned up our area, the stars came out. Super glued to my upper right arm. And one on my right temple.
“You’re flagging starfucker right now.”
“That’s okay. You’re a star in my world.”
Yes, there is room for cheesy-ness in the dungeon.
I wanted to take a photo. But I no longer had underwear. I had worn a pair of black boxer shorts. However, once I voiced a reminder that said boxers were destroyable, a knife soon ripped them apart, after grazing all over my skin. And slapping my clit. And lightly fucking me.
“You should save them, use them for your bootblacking kit.”
I love mixing my fetishes.
Taking my Zim jacket, I zipped it up over my legs and tied the arms around my hips.
“Hey, great. That looks like a cool skirt.”
Heading to the bathroom, I asked if someone would take my picture. Instead I was informed of the photo shoot happening in the ballroom next door. Rushing inside, I begged profusely and, in doing so, I earned the last spot.
So there is a chance that next IMsL I will be in the program (or, dare I say it, on the front cover) flagging starfucker.
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