One of the consistent requests from the survey was a bit of femdom. I think of myself as a switch, truly . . . though I’m, probably, 99% dominant in my actions & dreams. However, whenever you’re getting into something kinky . . . well, there is the opportunity to hurt, which is part of what is so intriguing. And there is the opportunity to injure . . . and that must always be avoided. The very first time I realized that I wanted to introduce some kink to the bedroom, I knew that there had to be an element of trust involved. And, to drive that home, I made sure that the person I was with knew that there was nothing that I’d ever do to her that I wouldn’t allow her to do to me . . . it only seemed fair.

I still think that way in regards to kink.

So, without further ado, the story of a man “learning his lesson” after misbehaving during a massage.

I entered the office and noticed that she was showing just a hint of cleavage . . . unlike her, but far from unappreciated. I won’t admit that I’ve strained to look down her top on an occasion or two previously.

I fear she caught my lingering gaze, for with a business-like demeanor, she walked to the massage room and, with a terse tone to her voice, said “disrobe, I’ll be back in after just a minute.”

She closed the door behind her and I unbuttoned my dress-shirt, taking care to hang it without wrinkling anything, and then I unfastened my belt. My cock, sensing that it was about to be freed, started to stiffen as I thought about my therapist’s ass, and the way the belt felt in my hand, and what it would be like to use my belt to turn that ass red.

I did nothing to stop these thoughts.

I sat on a chair and took of my shoes and socks, and then stood, taking off my pants, and carefully hanging them up. I stepped out of my boxers and ran a finger up the underside of my penis, relishing in the stiffness, the soreness.

I let my mind drift to thoughts of her — turning around and touching her. Putting her over my lap. Tasting her. Claiming her. What noises would she make in the throes of passion?

Hesitantly, I chose to lie down on the massage table, covering myself with the towel.

It was more than a few minutes before she returned.

The massage started like most every other massage — she kneaded the tops of my shoulders, on down my back. She’s known my body for forever, and there was not a knot left untouched. I was, simply, falling into the state of relaxation that I only commonly fall into.

Then she worked to my feet, kneading them in the way that just almost tickles, but then doesn’t, and, again, I grew further relaxed. As she worked my legs, I felt the towel slip . . . and I thought about the way I had arranged my cock, out in the open, so that, if this were to happen . . . well, there would be no debate as to it’s state. I was ready, and she must have seen.

But a second later, the towel was back on me, and she, professionally, worked my legs . . . my runner’s legs, those legs that are always sore and are so resistant to ever loosen up. Yet, loosen them she did.

But her hand lingered, just for a second, with her fingers resting against my balls. I thought I was hard before . . . yet now, well, I was harder.

She traced her fingers along my back as she walked her way to my head, always keeping contact with the body, as any good therapist will do, but as she passed, I let my fingers reach out, just a bit, touching her hip, hugging its curve. And as she moved, I allowed my fingers to trace along . . . I chided myself soon after — that first touch, that could have been an accident . . . a stretching of my muscles just at the wrong time. Sure, she’d see through that, but it could, at least, be explained. To follow her body – well, it was obvious that I wanted to touch her.

She said nothing, but continued the massage.

She kneaded the tops of my shoulders and I rested my head on the side of the headrest, looking toward my right arm. When she concentrated on just that area, she bent down, whispering in my ear “is this too hard?”

It wasn’t . . . she had to have known that I’ve never said anything was “too hard,” well, something on me might have been “too hard” at just that moment, but she could have worked me as hard as she wanted. Alas, at that moment, I opened my eyes, and I saw straight down her shirt — she had positioned herself just perfectly for my eyes – my mouth watered as I whispered “no.”

Without touching my left arm, she had me flip over, holding the towel out, to keep me “modest” . . . I had no idea that the session had even been the slightest-bit lopsided.

Settled on my back, I was in a bit of a trance . . . she massaged my left hand and placed it at my side, and then my right hand, placing it at my side. I was in bliss . . . and then I heard the “click.”

Looking down, I saw that both of my hands had been bound to the table.

“Naughty boys need to learn not to touch,” she said.

I panicked, just the slightest bit . . . god, what was she going to do? I knew I had fucked up . . . I should always “be in control,” but I’m pretty sure she had caught me reaching out for her body before . . . in fact, I was certain of it. It always changed the tone of the massage, and I always hated that I did it . . . but, I’d reign things in until the end, and months would go by before I’d even do it again. I hated to tell myself, though, that I had talked myself into the fact that the coincidence of the finger stretching was, truly, a coincidence, though I certainly new far better.

“And I just don’t think this is necessary,” she said, taking the towel off of me. “After all, you wanted me to look at it, didn’t you?” she asked, biting her knuckle and looking me in the eye.

“In fact, you wanted me to . . . touch it,” she giggled, tracing a finger along the underside of my shaft, “didn’t you?”

I couldn’t answer – a combination of lust and embarrassment overtaking me. And then I felt her grab ahold of my testicles, squeezing and twisting – her next words held no hint of the giggle that she just had in her voice “I asked you a question.”

“What?” was all I could muster through an anguished moan.

“You wanted me to touch you, didn’t you?” she hissed.

“Yes,” I replied. “Yes, I’ve always wanted you to touch me.”

“There” she quipped back, releasing the hold on my balls, “you’ll answer when spoken to.”

Slowly, she worked her fingertips up and down my shaft until I was harder than I can ever remember being. I felt the release of an orgasm mounting, and she stopped touching my cock. For the first time in the entire massage, there was absolutely no contact between her body and mine. I thrust my hips toward her hand, but it was hovering just out of reach.

She then spread my legs with her hands, running her fingertips from my knees to the base of my scrotum. Back and forth, never with more than a whisper of a touch, but careful to never touch my cock for more than a second, she teased me.

And then, she ran her fingers over my stomach, allowing her thumb to glance the head of my cock every now & then. Eventually, I allowed myself to be lulled into a trance here, and I fear that I grew a bit more flaccid, for every time I did, she’d masturbate me for just a few seconds, forcing my thoughts to an impending orgasm . . . one that just wouldn’t come.

The gong sounded . . . it had been an hour and a half since the start of the massage . . . and she kept going. Feather touches over my body, and as soon as I was anything but rock hard, she’d make sure to change that. Seconds, minutes, hours, fuck even days . . . they meant nothing to me. I needed release.

“Please, let me cum” I whispered.

“What?” she asked, her smile evident in her voice.

“Let me cum,” I whispered, again.

Her hands, slippery from the massage oil, took my balls in a firm grip. “I can’t hear you,” she said.

“Please, let me cum,” I said, louder.

“No” she responded, dropping my sex. “But I want to.”

She pushed her yoga pants down, and the “smell of sex” permeated the room. Slowly and carefully, she hopped onto the table and pressed herself against my belly, rubbing her pussy against my body, through her panties, up to my chin.

Moving implossibly slowly, she pushed her panties to one side, revealing smoothly shaved lips, dripping with her own lubrication. And then she approached my mouth, and I met her. One of her hands reached around to hold my head up while her other simultaneously held her panties to the side while she parted her labia. My tongue found her clit and I performed my favorite activity.

She ground her hips into my face, and I lapped up everything that I could. I felt her body quake and quiver . . . when she started making gasping noises, I had, for the briefest of seconds, the thought of pulling back, letting her feel what it was like to be “at the brink,” but my world was her orgasm at that moment, and I pressed my tongue, hard, against her clit.

Her body shuddered as I pressed my tongue against her as hard as I could, as she held my head at just the angle that most pleased her.

My beard was drenched with the essence of her.

As her body grew still, she held my head to her, and I kept my tongue right there. Finally, she pushed my head back to the table and we made eye contact.

Straddling my chest, she reached down, and in a fluid motion, took off her top . . . my eyes fell to her bra. Well, no – my eyes followed the line of her bra strap, relishing in the space between bra-strap and boob, that truly feminine space — and that space that, just sometimes, leaves the bra pulled back, just enough, from the breast to show a hint of nipple, before allowing my eyes to settle on her flesh.

With two quick movements, she popped her tits out & sat, rubbing her nipples in front of me. My hips thrust, impulsively, and the tip of my cock touched the area where her ass & her back were indistinguishable.

“Don’t you know it’s impolite to stare?” she asked me, but, for whatever reason, I had no response for her.

She jumped off the table & reached into the basket under the table where she had commonly kept rocks to be heated for her hot-rock-massage clients. “I’m afraid we need to work on your speaking when spoken to,” she said, pulling out a handful of clothespins.

Before I could protest, or even think back to what she had asked in the first place, she had pinched my scrotum and attached the first of the pins.

I squealed. It was not manly.

Four more went on in a row. And then another row of five were placed — each clothespin making the skin of my scrotum just a tiny bit tighter, making the placement of each more & more painful.

“There, that’s pretty,” she explained, looking at my cock.

She went back to playing with her nipples, teasing them into stiff beads as I watched her.

And, suddenly, two clothespins were yanked off.

The thing about clothespins is that they hurt, a lot to put on. They grow sore, however, when they’re on . . . they don’t feel good, but the pain grows to a dull throb. It’s bearable. But, when a clothespin is taken off, and the blood rushes back . . . it’s excruciating. And when the clothespin is yanked off, instead of being carefully pressed & released, well, it’s doubly painful.

I jumped, as much as the wrist bonds would allow.

My cock grew flaccid.

“You need to learn to look a woman in the eye” she said, sternly. “ogling my body will result in . . . further discomfort . . . and if you have no clothespins on you, you will not cum.”

A trickle of my erection returned upon hearing that — she was going to let me cum. At this point, that’s all I cared about.

She played with her breasts in front of me, and I looked at her eyes.

She plugged in a Hitachi, leaned against the wall, and gave herself another orgasm, leaving me wanting to have my tongue on her, yet again, to see if I could make her squeal like that . . . yet, I looked at her face the whole time.

“There, that’s better,” she said and, again, reached into the little basket beneath the massage table.

In her hands, she held a dildo . . . “you’ve made me look at your cock time & time again. I think it’s only fair that you should look at mine.”

I hadn’t realized, in her other hand, she held a harness (hey, can you blame me for only looking at the cock pointed at me?). I watched her as she fashioned the strap-on, noting the details as she did it. When she was done, she jerked it off in front of me and then reached down to my scrotum, yanking all but one clothespin off.

“I told you to look me in the eyes.”

“Sorry, Mistress,” I shuddered . . . not even realizing that I had used the term for her.

She reached for a bottle next to the oil . . . KY jelly, and slathered up her cock.

“I’m going to let your arms go, because you’re going to hold your legs in the air for me,” she explained, positioning herself between my legs . . . my strong, runners legs.

When she released the bonds, I lifted my legs, circling my arms beneath my hamstrings. Knowing what she was going to do, one hand parted each of my ass cheeks.

“Tell me, how many times have you thought about fucking me?” she asked.

Not wanting to lose the last clothespin, I answered “every time I’ve been here . . . and at least once a day between visits.”

“That’s what I thought, whore,” she responded.

And then, she pressed in.

The pain? Was blinding.

I threw my head back, closing my eyes . . . my world was the pain, the pain was my world. And then I thought about my cock, I thought about the single clothespin on my scrotum, and I thought that I wasn’t looking at her. My cock was as flaccid as it ever was, the pain simply overriding any type of pleasure sequence, but I still had that inner ache from not cumming. I needed to cum. Needed.

So, I opened my eyes.

Her eyes, they were fixated on the strap-on. A goofy smile was on her face as she held the member against me. She looked up, meeting my gaze, and solely thrust her hips forward.

I tried to relax, but, simply, I couldn’t . . . or the member was just too big to allow relaxation. She pressed forward, millimeter by millimeter. Every second that passed, I figured, was the end, that I, simply, couldn’t take any more . . . but seconds passed, and she pressed the dildo in further.

Finally, after an unbelievably long time, I felt the clothespin move, and then, I felt her stomach against my scrotum.

We sat, looking each other in the eye, for minutes, by body simply trying to adjust to the violation of the strap-on. In time, the pain dulled (though it never went away) and my erection slowly returned.

“The only way I’m going to touch you, slut, is as I fuck you,” she said, looking into my eyes.

“Then please fuck me” I responded.

“What would you like me to fuck?”

“My asshole.”

“And how should I fuck you?”

“Fuck me like the whore I am,” I eeked out.

She started to pump into me . . . each thrust bringing a stab of pain, but each stab feeling, just slightly, duller.

My erect cock in front of her turned into a play thing . . . as she pressed into me, she’d slap it to the left, and as the withdrew, she’d slap it to the right . . . she kept that up until I was, again, fully hard, and met each thrust with small movements of my own hips. My world was, no longer, simply pain, though there was no shortage of just that. The pain in my ass was numb, and, I’m hesitant to admit, there was pleasure there – a spot, deep within, that each time the dildo touched it, rang through in my toes. My cock – well, my balls were sore, and now my shaft was stinging with repeated slaps.

Something changed in her, though, and the pumping slowed, became more passionate, and she gripped my shaft. As she pumped into me, she brought her hand down, jerking me off. It was not long until I was at the brink again – that point where the only thing that exists is my need to release. I waited for her to stop, but she didn’t. She pressed into me, time and time again, and I felt a stream hit my stomach before my body actually released . . . and then, release I did.

For at least 30 seconds, my body spasmed in a fit of pleasure. She thrust her strap-on fully into me, as deep as it would go, and furiously pumped at my cock, which was, by then, covered in my own seed. When I stopped spurting, she gave me three hard pumps, making me cry out anew.

Only now did I realize that my legs were cramping as I held them in the air, but I continued to hold them, just like she wanted.

She brought her right hand to her lips, and licked the cum off of her fingers before reaching down and releasing the cock, leaving it buried in my ass. “I’m going to go clean myself up,” she said to me, “wash everything, and meet me in the office.” And with that, she left the room, closing the door behind her.

With two fingers, I grabbed the member thrust into me and withdrew it – my body seeming to question the sensation of not having something shoved up it. I walked over to the sink in the corner, turned the water on, covered my hands & the cock in liquid soap and washed the strap-on, then my hands . . . finally, I grabbed a hand-towel and cleaned up my stomach & cock.

I dressed and left the room, feeling strange to meet her in her office.

We’ve ended every massage in the office, talking about the techniques used, what I liked, what she saw as my trouble zones, what we might want to do next time, and then arrange our next appointment. She was taking notes, still in her underwear.

“Well, I think you’re more relaxed today than you’ve ever been — same time, next week?”

“That . . . that would be wonderful. I’ll be sure to keep my hands to myself.”

“Oh, I don’t think that would be good at all — that opened up some wonderful avenues today. But next time, you’ll keep your eyes open when I fuck you.”

I blushed.

“But, if you manage to keep every clothespin on,” she continued, “I may just have to crawl on top of you.”

With that, I had a new mission.

I’m not kidding when I say these are a graphic pics — not “disgusting” if you’re ok with male nudity, just I don’t want anybody accidentally stumbling upon them. I’m not especially proud, or ashamed of my body. I think nudity is taken way too seriously in our society (if we make it more commonplace, it won’t be such a big deal when a nipple slips). Click anywhere in this message to see me.