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From: "Seurat" <seurat7@enter.net>
Subject: {ASSM} RP Seurat's Twighlight Zone chapter 4(e): Art Critic (Femdom, Pony,bond, tickling)
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light and deep muscle techniques, along with pressure points
on the face and feet. I could've probably gotten a job
giving massages.
Gloria then blindfolded me and led me into another
room, directing me with hits of her cane. I felt her undo
my pants and drop them to the floor. She stood behind me
and undid the biting device.
"Now I shall show you one final massage."
From behind she grasped my limp cock with one hand
while rubbing my balls with her other. It took a minute
after all I had been through, but soon I had a strong
erection. Her hands manipulating me felt better than I
could ever do myself. I felt my orgasm rising, and Gloria
must have too. One hand left my balls and removed my
blindfold just before I came.
I stood in front of a large wall of glass. On the
other side was a room full of attractive women, dressed
in aerobics gear, all staring in my direction. The fact
that I was being jerked off in front of a room full of
women took me over the edge. My cock exploded in orgasm,
and my knees buckled because of the intensity of the blood
rush. Gloria milked my cum into a pan she had placed in
front of me.
It was then I noticed a figure on the other side of
the glass with her back to me, to whom all the other women
were really paying attention. I must've been behind a
one-way mirror, looking onto a class. At least I hoped it
was a mirror. Hoped and prayed. Exhibitionism is not my
cup of tea.
Friday, May 24th
My wife had an exceptionally hard day today, and was
very happy when I gave her a full body massage. I could
tell that she wasn't in the mood for sex, being too tired,
and I wasn't allowed to have sex anyway. Memories of the
teeth kept my mind on what I was doing. It was nice just to
touch her and to make her feel good. I think she really
enjoyed it.
Thursday, May 30th
I sat on the couch and looked at the video tape box.
The cover showed a woman in english riding clothes sitting
in a saddle. The title read, "Horse play - the training of
a mount". I slid the tape out of the box and put it in the
VCR, undid the drawstring on my sweatpants, and relaxed on
the couch. My wife wouldn't be home for a few hours; she
had to pick up some groceries, get gas for the car, and get
some scratch-off lottery tickets. That would take her close
to the mall, and she could never pass by without a quick stop
in. I reached over and turned out the lights, and focused on
the TV.
The screen flickered, then faded in on a row of stables.
The camera was evidently fixed in position. Into the screen
walks an attractive egyptian looking woman with long brown
hair, almost black. She is dressed in tight purple leather
pants, purple leather riding boots, a white silk shirt, and
a purple leather vest. She is tall and athletically built;
from her location and clothing it looks like she is going
for a ride.
She opens a stall and reaches inside, pulling on a pair
of reigns. Whatever is on the other end doesn't want to
come out. She picks up a riding crop, raises it above her
head, and it falls: once, twice, a third time, the only sound
being that of the crop on flesh. The reigns go slack and a
figure emerges from the stall.
It looks like a cross between a horse and a man. A man's
face and mouth and held in the bit and bridle, blinders keeping
his sight limited. His arms are strapped to his sides in a
harness which also holds a saddle on his shoulders. Long hair,
made into a mane of sorts, runs between two leather horse ears
projecting from the top of his head. From his ass projects a
horse tail, it's root held in his anus by more straps. A
thick eight inch cock dangles limply between his legs, which
are encased in black leather from his crotch down to their
heels. Only these boots are missing the heels; they force him
to stand on the balls of his feet, and they make little
horseshoe prints when he walks on dirt.
She hits him again and speaks, but the only sound heard
is the crop connecting with flesh. He squats as low as he
can, and she climbs into the saddle. He adjusts himself to
her weight, then she directs him out of the stables.
The scene changed, showing a riding ring. The purple
clad woman stands on a platform, cracking a drovers whip at
the horse man as he performs tricks; side shuffles, canters,
jumping over barrels. Any time he falters, he feels the lash.
The scene changed again. She is on his back, and they are
at a full gallop. In front of them is another man, a look of
pure terror on his face as they chase him down. The rider
twirls a weighted net over her head and releases, the running
man tumbles to the ground, his body encased in the net. He is
quickly surrounded by women dressed in black leather catsuits and
boots who pick him up and carry him away. The horse man is
covered in sweat, and crop marks can be seen across his ass.
She turns him, and they trot away.
Now she is leading him into a stall in the barn. A sign
on the door reads, 'Stud Service', but he doesn't see it.
Inside she takes off the bit and bridle and pulls a large
feeding harness over his head. His jaws move the bag as he
eats. She picks up a large beaker with her left hand and begins
to massage his cock with her right. His eyes go wide, and he
tries to escape her grasp, only to realize she has attached
his body harness to a frame in order to hold him in place.
His already large prick grows in her hand, eight inches,
nine inches, finally ten inches long and as thick as a soda
can. Her hand pumps away, and after a few minutes he begins
to spurt huge globs of cum into the beaker, filling it nearly
half-way. His knees buckle from the orgasm, but he is held
up by the harness. She turns to a refrigerator in the stall
and opens it, placing next to several other beakers. It is
labelled with his name: Stud O'Neill. The screen fades to
black.
I hit the 'stop' botton, then 'rewind'. As the tape
rewound I thought back to last night; I still have marks
on my ass. I got a few tissues and cleaned the pool of
precum on my stomach. I wasn't supposed to jerk off
completely. When it rewound I put it back in it's case, and
put it and the crop that accompanied it back in the secret
drawer with the other two. I headed to the bathroom to take
a cold shower so the erection would be gone before my wife
got home.
Wednesday, June 5th
I found this week's package on the front seat of my car
when I got out of work. Whomever was delivering these for
Tara and her friends could get in anywhere, it seemed. I
sat in the parking lot and ripped open the brown paper
packages. Inside was a pair of green shorts, a green and
yellow diamond patterned t-shirt, and a pair of green calf
high socks. All were made of the same cool and oily feeling
material that first nigh I was an art object. There was
another tube of gel, the now familiar remote, and an invitation
to a party for tonight. I stuffed the items into the glove
compartment, and headed to the store to pick up a few things.
Dinner slipped by. Casual conversations about work, my
fictional racquetball partner for the evening, and the
possibilities of looking at houses this weekend. One part
of my mind kept up the talking while the other tried to figure
out what would happen tonight. Before I realized it my wife
was kissing me goodbye and I was left to clean up the dinner
dishes.
The shirt and shorts were snug, and felt slimey with the
coating of gel underneath. My feet felt like they were stuck
in wet sneakers. I tapped in my code, and all became skin
tight. I had begun doing morning excersises to releive my
sexual tension, and the shirt showed off the results. There
was small pocket in the front of the shorts for my cock but
not my balls, almost like a sheath. The shorts also showed
off the fact that I shaved down there, and that I wasn't
wearing any underwear. I went to walk back into the bedroom
when I noticed it. My feet had become hyper-sensitive; the
carpet felt like steel wool trying to rub the callouses off
my feet. I jumped to the bed and sat down, and realized that
the shorts were having the same effect on the skin they
covered. It was like having a sunburn without the pain,
eveything so sensitive that it almost hurt. I pulled on a
pair of sweats and my old sneakers, the sensations almost
being too much.
Limping down the stairs was difficult; every step renewed
the sensitivity. My body began to sweat heavily under the
strain. I grabbed my wallet and keys from the stand by the
door and headed out to the car, the entire time looking like
I was walking on eggs.
The address for the party was at a comedy club. I hoped
that it wasn't a tie-and-jacket club; the note had said nothing
about additional clothing. I parked and grabbed my stuff,
then headed for the club. I found that I could move quick
but had to be ready for when I stopped, as the effects of
the outfit would catch up after a second or too. I pulled
out a ten for the cover charge, but the man at the door saw
my clothing and just pointed to the stage door.
The entry led into the back of the club, where that
night's performers waited their turn. I saw my 'date' for
the evening immediately, and things in my mind fell into
place.
She was very attractive, as all the women connected
with this organization had been so far. She was dressed in
a green harlequin outfit decorated with yellow diamonds.
Green ankle boots covered her feet, her hands were in yellow
gloves, and a three point halequin hood finished the outfit,
complete with bells on the ends on the points. A yellow mask
covered the upper part of her face. Though the rest of the
room was empty, I could here the noise of the crowd in the next
room.
"Whad'ya think? Too much? I always heard that comics
were nothing more than common man's jesters."
"I don't know. I don't go to this type of club. Maybe
some of them will find it entertaining."
"I don't care about them. It's you I'm here to entertain."
She smiled. Pleasant as that smile was, I got a bad feeling
about the whole thing.
"What would you like me to do?"
She looked around the room. It was filled with oddities
as if somebody had been collecting things from garage sales
for twenty years. Finally, she motioned to an old barbers
chair in a corner. "Sit there."
I did as I was told, first taking off my shoes and sweats.
I was growing used to the overly sensitive nature of my clothing.
Once I was seated, she skipped over to me, bells jingling, like
a little kid. She leaned in front of me, grinning. My bad
feelings grew even worse. She picked up my left arm and put
it on the armrest, and flipped a strap over it, tying that
arm down. "Why are you strapping me down?" A stupid question,
considering the people I was dealing with, but I asked anyway.
"Used to be a dentist's chair. These made sure they didn't
thrash during an operation." She tied down my other arm. I
pretty much let her, testing the bands once she was done. I
could've overpowered her easily if I had wanted, but nothing
really unpleasant had happened to me yet, at least nothing
permanently scarring. "That was in the days before anesthetic.
You won't have that problem."
Sirens, bells, and whistles all went off in my head.
"Let me up." She strapped my feet down quickly, knowing I
knew something was up.
"But you'd miss the show if you left."
"I don't care. Let me up now, please."
"Don't you like comedy?"
"It's okay. If you want to go out into the club, we
could watch a few of the comedians, but I've been drugged
before and I don't like it. It wasn't part of the deal."
"Deal? I don't remember any deal. I was just asked to
show you a good time, take you out and have a few laughs.
And who said anything about drugs?"
"You did when you talked about the anesthesia."
She laughed. "I meant you wouldn't have to worry about
thrashing about during an operation."
I felt a little relieved. "Then what are the straps
for?"
"So you don't leave during the show." With that, she
spun the chair around, then pulled back a curtain that had
hid the wall behind the chair. I was give a balcony view
of the stage where a comedian was just finishing his act.
I felt her hand do something at my crotch, and when I looked
down I saw a tube leading away from the tip of the built-in
sheath.
She crouched down behind me and whispered in my ear, "This
next one is one of my favorites. I hope you laugh at all his
jokes."
The next one out was a guy who did nothing but complain
about the differences about men and women. He was okay, by my
standards, but I'm not a big one on male bashing. My jester
friend seemed to like him just fine. I could hear peals of
laughter every time he made a joke about how stupid men can
be. Halfway through his act she leaned in close again.
"You're not laughing. Nobody comes to my club and
doesn't laugh." She walked to where I could see her
completely. "Some of the people you'll meet may strike you
or tease you sexually in order to control you. I was asked
to teach you how to laugh at yourself, that you didn't know
how to do that." Again with that 'teaching' thing. My mind
flitted back to the masseuse. She had let on that I was being
taught'. This would take some serious thinking. "Instead of
a crop or a whip or even my hand, I use this." She held up a
long stiff feather.
The alarm bells went off again, louder and stronger than
before. I tried to pulll loose from the chair, but couldn't.
"That's right. Even if you weren't ticklish before, you
are now." The feather brushed up my ribs, wiggled in my armpit.
I let loose with a howl of laughter. "Much better. I tought
it was a good joke, too."
The feather wiggled the soles of my feet after each of
the comedian's jokes about men, ripping guffaws from my mouth
and tears from my eyes.
The next comic was one she had picked just for me. My
laughs began to drown out the crowds in the normal seats. The
jester alternated between my feet, my ribs, and my armpits,
never letting me get desensitized. Tears streamed down my
face, and I begged for mercy. I could feel my bladder about
to explode. She never let up, and finally I lost control over
my bladder. The tube hooked to my shorts took care of the
mess I would have made, drawing off the results of my laughing
fit.
After nearly an hour of this I was so exhausted that I
could hardly move. She undid the straps holding me down, then
peeled off the shirt, shoes, and finally the shorts. My mind
was filled with the smell of my own body odor. The room must
have reeked from it; I had sweated so much I probably lost a
few pounds. At the rush of cool air, my cock sprang to life.
The jester looked down at it.
"Oh yeah. I guess I'm supposed to give you some
comic relief'." I couldn't have laughed if my life depended
on it. She pushed me back into the chair into a reclining
position, then swung a leg over me so that she was stradling
my chest with her back to me. I felt something cup my balls,
then something else grip my cock. She got off me and strapped
my arms and legs down again while I looked at the contraption.
My genitals were encased in a large plastic tube, with four
rods pressing along it lengthwise. Where the rods exited the
bottom of the tube, they met and wrapped the base of my cock,
then melded into a cup holding by balls. At the end of the
tube, just past the head of my prick, was a ball about the size
of a tennis ball, again, it was made of clear plastic.
The jester stood next to me, hands on hips. "I actually
thought this one up. All you have to do is fill the ball up,
and you can leave." The ball looked pretty big from where I was.
"How am I supposed to do that without touching myself?"
--
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