TABOO TALES(erotica)

He reloaded the injector, inserted the tip into the cunt funnel and fired. “Fuck!” she yelled. He wished he could simultaneously shoot a hot load up her ass. He controlled her sucking by pulling the shoelaces. As he did with the tea clamps, he yanked on them rhythmically when he wanted her to deep throat him. She buried his shaft down her throatdesperate for him to cum as her crushed breasts were forced against the burning metal. Each time he pulled, he’d enjoy the sight of more cum oozing out of the funnels and running down the shoelaces. That view, plus her face against his pubic hair, was enough. Still yanking her nipples, he pushed back her head and spewed his load onto her contorted face as she came in unison, yelling “Fuck! Yeah! Do me!” and other words as she jumped and twisted frenziedly in the chair, banging the cunt funnel and anal carrot dildo into the seat of the stool.

When he’d squirted the last of his discharge across her now-blank face, he turned off the coil but left the hot funnels to cool off on her chest. He photographed her for ten minutes, including the small river of juices pouring down the funnel in her cunt and onto the stool. She gritted her teeth in pain when he used the eraser tip of a pencil to force the raw, turgid nipples back inside the funnels. Then he rotated the still-warm coils off her greasy breasts, a mixture of oil and cum covering the reddened mounds, pulled the third funnel out of her grasping, sucking cunt, and removed the carrot from the depths of her bowel. She gasped in relief as the kitchen air-cooled her throbbing mammaries.

He slapped her fully awake and removed the eye mask. She gazed at her abused, livid breasts and bound nipples as if they belonged to a stranger. “Don’t wash your face or tits,” Matt warned. “Leave the laces. Put on a blouse and skirt and make dinner.” She trudged to the staircase, holding onto the railing to hoist herself upstairs. He thought he heard her moan of suffering from upstairs as she buttoned the tight blouse across her throbbing breasts. When she returned a couple of minutes later, he could see the two cum-slicked shoelaces beneath the fabric wet with oil and cum, the black leather cords extending down beneath the blouse. She looked disgustingly obscene. It was a clear admission of servitude: as his slut mother, her tits were his, and he could play with or abuse them any time he liked. She made dinner like a zombie. Matt told her to make something with a cream sauce, to remind her that she was a cum-slut. He was attentive to filling and refilling her large wine glass. He thought she was in shock, but actually she was remembering every moment and feeling of her previous debasement. Finally, to make conversation in some naive hope of normality, she asked tentatively, “What did you do today, Matthew, aside from buying my wardrobe?” She realized the contradiction, asking a normal mother’s question after she had cooked a domestic dinner wearing a slut’s face, the cum slowly drying, and a wave of absurdity hit her. Here she was pretending to be an ordinary suburban mother, when in reality she was the willing cum- and pain-slave of her masterful son. She realized that with each session she sank lower into the mire of obsession and subjugation. Yet she had never been as completely happy as now. She belonged to him. And every session was a roller coaster of abuse and ecstasy.

“Oh, I kept busy with different things,” he said evasively. “And you?”

“I had so much work to catch up on at the office I arrived late at the gym, she said. “Since I was lazy about exercising or doing yoga on my trip, I worked out really hard. But since I arrived late, the gym was closing before I could do my stretches.” She brought their filled plates to the table and they sat.

“I’m going to stretch your tits now.”

She closed her eyes and shuddered. He had said it with the same matter-of-fact tone as “Pass the salt.” There was no question that it would happen, that she would be in pain, that she would crave more. “Wha-why?”

“Why do you think?”

She screwed up her face in concentration. He waited. “Because I gave you your allowance a day late?” she ventured.

“Yes.” He reached across the table and inside her blouse, grabbed the ends of the shoelaces and pulled until they emerged from the opening of the blouse. She froze, pain and pleasure distorting her features as Matt tightly tied the shoelaces together, forcing the nipples to bend and stretch toward each other.

“Oh God!” she muttered, jerking her face down to watch, causing a gob of cum to fall off her forehead onto the edge of her plate.

“You look great, like you’re wearing a nipple chain. Except that it’s a ‘nipple lace!’ But you’re dripping onto your plate. Clean that up.” She scooped the congealing cum into a teaspoon, slowly sucked it in and swallowed it, licking her greasy thick lips.

Matt removed another shoelace from a kitchen drawer, tied it to her “nipple lace,” and strung it across the table to where he was sitting. She sat there, mouth slack and tongue lolling from the pain and the arousal, stupefied by the depths to which she would submit to his whims. She never knew what new debasement he would force her into. He abused her now every day and every single night. She was his play-toy.

They began their dinner in silence, Matt enjoying every moment of the strange scene. Every few minutes he pulled on the lace. Immediately, the increased tension forced Janice’s nipples forward. Her breasts bulged under the blouse, the nipples massively extended. Grimacing, she continued her meal. When no food remained on her plate, he said, “Open your blouse.” He undid the laces from her suffering nipples. She sighed with relief. “Go prepare yourself for yoga.”

“Yes, Matthew, whatever you say. I’ll just put on shorts and a T shirt?”

“No you won’t. The liniment will stain them. Just put on your robe and the same baby doll, since it’s already torn.” She was silent, further humiliated by the thought of wearing the spotted, encrusted baby doll, the garment she’d worn during the filthy scenes with the air conditioner, the tea clamps and the blow dryer. “And I’ve finally decided what I want from you for my graduation gift.” He turned and looked directly at her. She simply stared at him, her eyebrows raised slightly, mouth open questioningly, but was mute.

Finally she asked tauntingly, “What is it you want? To. . . to whip me? To whip my ass?” he met her gaze, unperturbed. “Or maybe to cane me? To cane my tits?” No response. “Because you won’t stop at anything, will you?” He just stared at her, implacably. “To fuck me?” she said in a challenging tone to provoke him. “Okay. To fuck my cunt?” He just smiled serenely. “Or to. . . to fuck my ass? Or both?” But he was so self-assured she couldn’t get any kind of rise out of him.

“First, I’m going to massage you, like I promised. I’ve got some new liniment that smells great. Then you will be whipped for your rude attitude just now, but that’s only a preparation for my present. I have different plans for your nipples. Meet me in the den in twenty minutes.”

“Yes, Matthew,” she said, suddenly contrite. In an instant, her defiance had changed to burning curiosity.This is property © NôvelDrama.Org.

In our next chapter, Janice’s first yoga lesson, with intense heat and the novel use of another kitchen tool.

The Bolster and the Injector

Janice was so flustered at the outburst to her sexy son that when she walked upstairs she had to hold onto the railing yet again. She’d practically told her son she wanted him to whip her and fuck her cunt and ass. She grimaced while putting on the tattered baby doll. When she returned to the kitchen in her robe and high slippers, Matthew was not there, so she slowly walked down the long, dark corridor to the den in the rear of the house. In the den, she saw that there were other changes in the house besides her wardrobe. Matthew had placed three heat lamps around the room that he’d been using for a bio-chem experiment in the basement. Each was carefully plugged into a socket along a different wall, which meant a different circuit, so there was no danger of tripping a circuit breaker.

Although there was still light outside, it was dusk and the room was dim. It was also cool. It was a decidedly masculine room with furniture in black leather. Each window had two heavy rods going across from which hung cafe curtains. A black leather bolster from one of the sofas had been placed on the thick carpet between them. It was cylindrical, well over a foot in diameter, and firm. Another smaller bolster lay behind it.

On the coffee table next to the bolster, a large tumbler had been filled to the brim with her favorite, a white Russian and frozen yogurt. There was also a blender pitcher half filled with the remainder. The drink was so deliciously sweet and cooling that it never occurred to her that it was also loaded with vodka. Next to the glass were the lemon and bungee cord, plus a thick, black satin eye mask. Her mind was too tipsy to figure everything out. Feeling unsteady, she immediately took another large swallow. Staring at the eye mask, her mind flashed for an instant on her diary.

She wondered why the microwave had been moved to an end table. Next to it was a large beige squeeze bottle of liniment and a six-inch metal injector, an updated design of the traditional plastic baster. Looking more like a doctor’s instrument than a cook’s, it had three metal rings in which to insert your fingers before pushing on the plunger. It tapered to a one-inch tip.

Although Matthew was not visible, another of his notes was. It said, “Drink the entire glass so you’re as relaxed as possible. Put on the eye mask to help you relax. Then lie face down on the bolster. I’m going to be multi-tasking-massaging and simultaneously stretching your muscles, since you were bad on your trip (no yoga). I learned about two new yoga techniques while you were away. One is called Bikram Yoga.”