By David Sellers
Five minutes later—maybe less—I heard the deadbolt click and the door to the storeroom open.
I groaned, unhappily, and pushed against the straps. I wanted the ballcrusher off. I wanted the gag removed. I wanted out.
“I know, honey,” my husband said, patting my chest, “it hurts, all of it. It’s supposed to. Ten more minutes. Maybe fifteen. Unless you moan and groan—do that and I’ll leave you here.”
I took a deep breath and exhaled. I would be good. I would be quiet.
My husband began to stroke my cock—which is the only thing that makes the ballcrusher bearable. What felt like five minutes went by. I was getting close to coming.
“Yes,” I grunted with the gag in my mouth—I was close. Really close.
Another long stroke. Another. My cock began to throb. With his free hand my husband undid the buckle of the gag and removed it from my mouth. I was right on the edge.
“Permission to come?!?” I said, desperately. “Please? Can I come?!?
My husband let go of my cock.
“You can come,” he said, slowly running a finger up my cock. “But if you come you’re going back into storage tonight. Roger is going away for the weekend and he wants to come over, after his shift. I’ll tell him no if you don’t want him to and you can sleep in our own bed with me. But then you don’t get to come. Not now, not today, not this weekend. Not until Roger spends the night again and then only after I’ve fucked him and then only if he wants to let you come and he probably won’t.”
“What’s it going to be?” my husband asked. “Come now and go back in storage tonight? Or don’t come and sleep with me in our bed tonight and maybe not come for a long time?”
“I don’t know,” I said, very nearly whining. “I want to come so bad. I’ve earned it—”
“You haven’t earned anything,” my husband said. He reached down and tightened the screws on the ballcrusher. “You get what I let you have and that’s all. You’re haven’t earned anything, you’re not owed anything.”
He took the clamps off my tits, gave them a quarter turn, and put them back on.
“I think you should come,” my husband said. “If things keep going the way they’re going, you’re going to be spending a lot of time in here. Might as well get used to it. You have to be up to nine hours by the end of the month.”
End of the month! This storage session had to have lasted nine hours already!
My husband took the blindfold off and removed the hood. He was sitting on the stool next to the bondage board. He leaned in, resting his left elbow on the board above my head. He stroked my hair with his left hand and began stroking my cock with his right.
“What’s it going to be,” he said.
“I want to come,” I said. I knew I’d regret it the second I came—but I was dying to come, and my husband knew it.
“You have my permission,” my husband said, a triumphant smirk spreading across his face. “But it’s only going to get worse. All of this. Whether you come or not. You understand?”
“Yes,” I said.
My husband began to stroke faster. He sat up, reached down, and tightened the screws on the ballcrusher.
“I own you,” my husband said, stroking. “I own this cock. You’re my fucking property—my sick fucking property.”
This wasn’t new, this “own you” dirty talk. It turned me on to hear my husband describe me as his property. He usually went there—he went to “I own you”—when I was tied up and he was jacking me off. He knew it drove me crazy. Then he went someplace new.
“Who’s Roger,” he said. “Tell me who Roger is.”
“Roger’s is your boyfriend.”
“Roger is your owner’s boyfriend,” my husband said. “And he owns you now too. You’re my slave and his slave. From now on. Understood?”
“Yes!” I said. “Can I come!”
“Not yet,” my husband said. “Who owns you?”
“You do,” I said, my hips bucking against the straps. I had passed the point of no return. I was about to shoot. “You own me. Can I come?!?”
“Not just me anymore,” my husband said firmly, as he gave the screws on the ballscrusher two final—and vicious—turns. “I’m not your only owner.”
“Roger owns me too,” I nearly shouted. “You both own me! Both of you!”
“You can come now.”
“Oh, man,” I said, as my husband removed the ballcrusher. “I regret coming.”
“I knew you would,” my husband said, smiling. “And if you think you regret it now…”
The straps dropped to the floor as he unbuckled them, one after the other, until all 14 straps were laying on the floor. He unzipped the the sleepsack. My arms ached—my everything ached. My tits, my balls, my arms, my legs, and my back. And my heart ached too. I loved bondage, I loved my husband, I loved his sadistic streak. But we were in uncharted territory and I was afraid.
I sat up on the bondage board and ran my fingers through my hair. My husband sat down beside me, threw his arm around my shoulder, and pulled me in for a kiss.
“Good job, honey,” he said. “Six hours. We’ll do six and a half tonight.”
“I was in there for a lot longer than six hours,” I said.
“No,” he said. “You weren’t.”
“That was a lot more than six hours!” I protested.
He pulled his phone out the pocket of his flannel pajama bottoms. He held it up to my face. It was 6:10 AM.
“You went into to storage at midnight,” my husband said. “Roger had to be up and out the door at 5:30 AM. That’s when we came in. And the extra ten minutes was your fault because you wanted to come.”
My jaw went slack. I was going nuts at six hours! How was I going to work up to nine?!?
“I’m exhausted,” my husband said, yawning. “Clean this mess up—or set it up. You’re going back into storage when Roger comes over tonight. Get everything ready for tonight.”
My husband stood up and pointed to the floor in front of his feet. I slipped off the bondage board and knelt in front of him.
“This is what you always wanted,” he said. “You always wanted me to be more controlling, more sadistic, more creative. Harder on you, tougher, more intense bondage sessions. You didn’t want to know what would come next. You finally got your wish and you’re bitching.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just a little scared about… where this is going.”
“Good,” he said. “You should be scared. I want you to be scared. God knows Roger gets off on you being scared. But I love you. You’re my husband and always will be. I own you and I always will. But I’ve got a boyfriend now—which is something you will never have—and things are going to be very different for now on.”
He turned and walked toward the door. I looked at his beautiful, broad back, still on my knees. He stopped and turned.
“Who owns you?” he asked.
“You do,” I said.
Metal would like to thank the author, David Sellers, for this story!
Click for previous part
Click for Part 1