Holiday Football

By RbbrStorage

As I swept my tongue across the shiny steel surface and cleaned the last of my breakfast from my bowl, I found myself dreading the day that lay ahead of me.  I really shouldn’t have. After all, it was a holiday and I’d be spending it with my partner, Tom. But it was also one of those holidays when there are never-ending football games on T.V., back to back to back.  Tom was a football fan.  I wasn’t.  It was one of the few things we didn’t have in common.

I should probably mention that sex was the most important thing that we did share in common.  And as I polished my bowl clean with my tongue, I realized that part of the dread I felt was the realization that the sexual scene we had played out since I arrived home from work the night before would certainly end before the first kick-off, since Tom always gave football his complete attention, and I would have to dutifully watch the games at Tom’s side and cheer for his teams.  Thankfully, I was mistaken.

Tom reached down from his chair and lifted my bowl, then tousled my hair to show that he was pleased with the speed with which I had downed my breakfast.  If I had a tail, I would have wagged it in response.  Come to think of it, there have been plenty of times when Tom has given me a tail, protruding from the base of a butt plug firmly lodged in my ass – but this morning wasn’t one of those times.

Tom nodded towards the kitchen – my cue to take the empty dishes and clean up.  I got up from the floor, picked up my bowl and his plate, and carried them to the kitchen as quickly as my hobbled ankles and the butt plug in my ass would allow.  Within a few minutes I had the dishwasher running and was wiping the counter clean when Tom entered the kitchen.  He had eaten breakfast in his robe, but now he was dressed for a day of football – at least, his kind of day watching football.  He had on his jersey for his favorite team, leather chaps, boots, and a codpiece jockstrap.  I finally clued in and realized that it would be no ordinary day of television.

Tom ordered me to go into the living room and strip off everything I was wearing – which wasn’t much, just a pair of knee pads, ankle restraints connected by a short chain, and a pair of wrist restraints.  He entered the room as I stripped off the last of the gear, carrying a leather sleepsack and a few items I couldn’t identify.  A few minutes later I was on my back, securely zipped into the tight, confining leather bag.  Tom then produced two rubber tubes that he inserted into my nostrils and taped in place, and then slipped a heavy blindfold over my eyes.  As the opening music began on the T.V., announcing the start of the game, I sensed the movement of furniture near my head, and correctly guessed that the rim seat had just been placed over my head.  A moment later Tom was lowering himself onto the seat, and onto my face.  The tubes in my nose allowed me to breathe as his butt smothered my face, and I quickly put my tongue to work.

If you think a football game is long when you’re forced to watch it when you’d rather do just about anything, imagine passing those same two hours or more with your tongue up another man’s butt.  Thankfully, Tom gave my tongue the occasional rest – sometimes by shifting his weight to put his balls in my mouth, and sometimes when he got up to take a leak during a commercial break.  Otherwise, I spent the two hours and forty-three minutes of that first game existing as nothing more than a leather-coated rimming machine.

Not that I was complaining.  My dick stayed hard throughout the entire game, waving about like a cheerleader on the sidelines.  And it’s not like Tom just sat there, either.  With every point scored or tense moment of play, he bounced up and down or sideways in an involuntary reaction to the excitement of the game.  I had a bit of a moving target.  But I won’t pretend that my tired tongue was more than a little relieved when the seconds finally ticked down on the clock and the first game of the day was over.

As the post-game show commentators droned on, Tom released me from the leather sleepsack and let me know how pleased he was with the enthusiasm I had shown for the first game.  But, Tom informed me, he was a little upset at how much of the game he had missed because of necessary bathroom and kitchen breaks.  For this next game, things would have to be different.

I assumed that meant I would spend the game running back and forth between the living room, the kitchen and the bathroom, bringing Tom beers and food, and emptying pots of his piss into the toilet.  Sort of, but not quite what I imagined.

Tom ordered me to go to the bedroom and put on a rubber bodysuit that fit me even more snugly than the sleepsack.  I squeezed myself into it and then returned to the living room.  Tom’s hand signal towards the floor told me to get down on all fours, and he then went about slipping kneepads over my knees, ankle restraints on my ankles, and fist mitts over my wrists.  The ankle restraints this time had short chains that attached to a ring around my balls, making it impossible for me to stand.  And remember the tail I mentioned earlier?  Tom pulled out a hard rubber tail and slipped the butt plug portion into my butt, firmly lodging the tail in place.  Now I not only couldn’t stand, but I couldn’t sit either.  The final piece of my game uniform was a tight rubber hood with a funnel attachment.  The end of the funnel was lodged between my teeth, forcing my jaw apart, while the tight rubber pushed my jaw up and into the hard plastic of the funnel.

By the time of the kickoff for the second game, Tom had transformed me into his rubber dog/slave/urinal.  Since it was now the afternoon, Tom had switched from water to beer … and this was a man who can hold his beer.  I figured I’d had some sort of reprieve for the first half hour or so, but I was wrong.  He’d been storing up the water he’d been drinking during the last quarter of the earlier game.  As the commentators began the pre-game show, Tom pulled his glorious dick from the confines of his codpiece jock and pointed it into the funnel.  His bitter warm piss soon flooded my mouth.  I swallowed as fast as I could, and Tom thankfully kept the stream light and under control.  No point in drowning the urinal before half-time, I suppose.

When he was done, Tom just said “flush” and sat back down.  That was my command to crawl to the bathroom and relieve myself into the shower stall – since I couldn’t get up onto the toilet in my current get-up.

By the time I returned, Tom was setting a cooler of beer down next to his chair and was settling in for the game.  He had removed his codpiece jock and was sitting back in the chair with his legs spread wide.  He ordered me to kneel before him, with my back to the T.V., and the funnel lodged between his legs.  Tom rested the head of his dick over the rim of the funnel, downed half a beer, and then turned his attention to the game.

For the next three hours and twelve minutes, to be exact, I kneeled patiently in front of Tom, busily swallowing the spurts of piss that he released from his cock every few minutes or so – a near-constant supply rather than periodic floods.  Every so often Tom would say “flush” and I would quickly crawl to the bathroom and back.

By the time the game was over, my knees and leg muscles were exhausted.  I was hoping Tom had some sort of respite in mind for the third game of the day.  I was half right.

As the post-game show got underway, Tom removed my fist mitts and ordered me to crawl to the bedroom, strip off everything, and shower myself clean.  The shower felt great, since I’d worked up quite a sweat inside all that rubber, and I was starting to look forward to the third game as I left the bathroom.  That’s when I saw the gear laid out on the bed.

It was two of my favorite pieces of custom bondage gear.  The first was a pair of leather chaps, except made for a bondage bottom.  Laces pulled the leather in tight against my legs, and D-rings ran up the sides allowing Tom to tie me into all sorts of positions, while leaving my crotch and ass uncovered and available.  The second piece is a similar contraption for the arms.  Sleeves with mitts on the end, connected to a harness that goes around my chest and back.  I can’t tighten the sleeves myself, but Tom quickly took care of that when I crawled back into the living room.

The coffee table had been pushed out of the way, and in its place was a piece of furniture from our dungeon – essentially a fuck bench that sits low on the ground, basically securing me in place on my hands and knees at the same height as a footstool.  In a matter of minutes, Tom had me crouching over the bench, with my arms and legs firmly strapped in place.  I was facing the television, but something told me I wouldn’t be watching the game.  For once, I was right.

Tom proceeded to explain the rules of the third game to me.  When the game began, my left ass cheek would represent one team, and my right would represent the other.  Each time a team scored, Tom would keep score on the appropriate ass cheek with swats of a paddle.  It would be my job to keep score in my head based on the paddle swats, since I would be unable to hear or see anything.  Then it got a little more complicated.  Each time the teams changed direction, my butt cheeks would switch their allegiance.  This would be signaled to me by a change in the device stuffed up my butt.  Replacing a vibrating butt plug with a prick-shaped one would be a signal that the quarter had ended.  If, once the game was over, I correctly guessed the winning team and the correct score, Tom would bring our weekend scene to an end, and I could sleep comfortably in the bed that night, warmly held in his embrace.  If I was wrong about either, the scene would continue for the remainder of the weekend, and I would probably be spending the night bound up in a cage under the bed.

Since I had no questions about the rules, Tom stuffed a ball gag into my mouth and pushed earplugs into each of my ears, then pulled a heavy leather hood over my head – a sensory deprivation hood that had thick padding around the ears.  A short strap was attached from the hood to the harness across my back, keeping my head from falling forward.  I was unable to see or hear a thing.

Unable to move or protest my plight, I waited for the game to begin.  I sensed Tom sitting back in his chair behind me, then felt his feet resting on my back.

About twenty minutes later I was startled by the feel of the paddle slapping my right butt cheek without any warning.  I managed to recover my senses to count three blows.  Ten minutes later I was stunned by seven on the left cheek.  This went on for almost three hours – it was a high scoring game, damn it — until I was practically in tears as the final touchdown was registered on my right butt cheek.  The changes of butt devices had been a real distraction – from a simple cock-shaped butt plug, to anal beads, to a pulsing electro-plug, to a vibrating nightstick that always keeps me on the edge of an orgasm but not quite able to come without stimulation to my dick,

Finally I felt Tom’s nimble fingers at the buckles to the hood, and soon I was able to see light and hear sound.  The T.V. was on mute, and a towel was draped over the screen.  “The score!” was all he said, and I quickly responded that it had been 43 for the winning team and 37 for the losing team.  A ball gag was quickly shoved into my mouth and strapped into place – not a good sign.  Then Tom pulled the towel away from the T.V. to reveal the post-game show.  At the bottom of the screen, a banner revealed that the score had actually been 46 to 34.

I was crushed.  I was sure I’d kept track properly.  The vibrating night stick was still whirring away in my ass, keeping me on the edge of an orgasm that I knew I didn’t have permission to enjoy, as Tom proceeded to verbally abuse me for my worthless concentration skills, my poor math skills, and my few talents that seemed limited to urinal, footrest and rimming machine.  He promised me one more chance – there were two games on T.V. the following day, and if I got both of those scores correct, the scene would end the following night.  If I screwed up, however, he might keep my on my knees for the entire week.  That was all I needed to hear.  Even without stimulation on my dick, the vibrations in my ass and the anticipation of up to a week on my knees, in bondage, was enough to send me over the edge.  I tensed up and shot a large load of cum onto the bench, my first in weeks.  It was an amazing orgasm.  As I slowly came back to my senses and as Tom’s yelled threats about what I would have to do to pay for that mistake buried themselves deep in my mind, I found myself wondering if maybe, just maybe, I had messed up my scorekeeping on purpose.

I couldn’t be that sick a puppy, could I?  Need I ask?

 

THE END

 

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