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Onscreen, the hand is moving faster, leaving the cock more and more. Every few strokes the hand stops and reaches down to pull at the swollen balls. She feels a thrill each time it departs, each time it returns. He’s jacking himself, slut. He’s going to cum. He’s gotta stop jacking himself, slut...he doesn’t want to cum yet. Look at him pulling his balls. Look what you make him do. You make it so he can’t keep himself from cumming. He’s gonna blow his load and it’s all your fault, bitch. What a horny, slutty cunt you are. What an irresistible little bondage slut. I bet you want to see it, don’t you? See his big hot load shooting everywhere?
She doesn’t; she doesn’t care. She doesn’t give a damn if she sees it or not. What she likes is his hand moving fast and desperate trying to make his cock shoot, and then stopping and pulling at his balls trying to make himself last. But he can’t. He can’t last, slut. He’s too fucking hot for you, little bondage slut. You’re his camwhore. You’re making him jack himself off. He wants to stop but he can’t. It’s all your fault.
She’s close. She shrieks and pushes her hips up into the air, lifting her butt off the sweat-sodden bed and pressing her thighs together. She throws her head back. Her hair is everywhere. Clothespins go popping as she gag-screams and writhes. Pain floods the deep imprints left by the clothespins.
She goes rigid. She cums hard. Her pussy contracts; her body goes hot-cold-hot-cold with blasts of pleasure. She screams into the gag. All that comes out is a muffled sound. Thank god; her motherfucking roommates are probably already wondering what the fuck all that rattling is.
Her ass pumps hard for a minute; it lowers to the wet bed. She opens her thighs and pulls the vibrator out of her panties. She flips the switch, tosses the vibe to the side. It hits the floor and the switch goes on again. It rattles there, buzzing on hardwood.
On her laptop, the cam window’s empty except for the little thumbnail that shows her with her legs spread and her tits like porcupines. The guy is gone. Did he cum? There’s no way to tell. She didn’t really want to see it, but she wishes she knew one way or the other.
With some significant effort, she unfastens the spring clip attaching her right wrist restraint to her bondage belt. She reaches over and frees her left wrist. She undoes both buckles impatiently; her wrists are sweating.
Her stomach is sweating, too. She’s sweating all over. She unbuckles her bondage belt and tosses it irritably on the floor. She takes off her gag and leaves it on the sweat-soaked pillow beside her.
She looks down at her tits, which are heaving from her deep, desperate breaths. They always hurt more coming off than going on. It’s one of the reasons she likes them.
But she’s never worn this many before; she’s never had a client who asked her to wear so many. And it’s probably been almost twenty minutes since she put on the first one. She never leaves them on that long.
In her head, she hears her nasty voice.
That means it’s really going to hurt, slut, taking those fucking things off. The longer you wait, the more it hurts. What is that, like thirty of them? Nah, you lost a few...there’s still like twenty-five left. Damn, that’s gonna hurt. You’re probably gonna cry. You’ll definitely scream. You’ll probably like it. You just wish you had some guy to watch you, don’t you?
She’s humming with terrified anticipation as she takes deep breaths, porcupine tits heaving. She reaches for the first clothespin.
Her laptop chimes. She sees a chat flag.
She sits up awkwardly, feeling the wetness under her butt and the pull of her flesh against the clothespins. She leans forward.
She sees her own image distorted through the fish-eye lens of the cam. Sweat coats her face, as it does her whole body. Her mascara’s everywhere; black drops of it dot the wooden clothespins. Her lipstick’s ruined. Why does she even wear makeup for these things?
She double-clicks the chat flag. It’s a new user—one she’s never heard from before.
I see from your profile you like clothespins, the message says.
She takes a series of deep, quick breaths; she looks down at her tits and trembles in a softly familiar blend of terror and pleasure.
She shifts her ankles, feeling the embrace of the restraints, hearing the rattle of the chains.
She wipes her hands on her sheets. She types:
I sure do. In fact, I’m wearing about twenty-five of them on my tits right now. Wanna see me take ’em off?
She makes a smiley face. She never makes a smiley face.
She breathes deep and hard as a long moment passes.
Then she hears another chime, sees the credits rack up in her profile. Twenty more minutes, prepaid. A half-hard dick appears on the screen, a hand furiously pulling at it.
So you’ve been a nasty little fuckwhore, says the voice in her head. Let’s see you hurt yourself.
She reaches for her ball gag and stuffs her mouth full. She buckles it tight, tucks her left hand under her tit and lifts it up.
She plucks away clothespins. The hand moves faster. She bites down on the gag and lifts her butt off the sweat-soaked sheets.
TWISTED REALITIES
Kiki DeLovely
