Pre-Game Hype (Super Bowl Sunday Part 2)

“Holy crap, Boris, the Chargers are going to the Super Bowl.”

Boris reached over the arm of the couch to give him a high-five, “Un-fucking-believable, first time ever. Marsha, two more beers. Me and Brian’s got an AFC Championship to celebrate.”

This had been the two men’s passion, to huddle before the television set every week during the season to watch their beloved San Diego Chargers. Of course, all of that had ended with Boris’s first marriage, but after a six-year interruption, the tradition had been renewed – and continued with wife Marsha, she being a bit more tolerant of man things taking place in her home.

“Ok, buddy, in two weeks, my place.”

“Can I come?” Marsha sat down two cans for the boys.

“Sure,” Brian smiled and winked, “the more the merrier.”

“Oh, shit no, you ain’t coming.” Boris popped open the can, aiming it towards his wife in hopes of splattering her clothes with a few flying droplets. “You don’t want to be around his place. It’s a pig sty. For men only.”

Marsha sat in a nearby chair and dropped her head, pretending to be hurt, while waiting for Brian to fix the problem.

“Hell, Boris, Marsha doesn’t care about that. And besides, we’ll need someone to wait on us. Don’t want to miss any of the action, right?”

He glared at her, as she sat there looking dejected, then Boris spoke to his pal, “I guess she could be useful.”

After slamming down the can of beer, purposefully missing a coaster she had placed on the table, he growled, “Marsha, look at me.” She raised her head. “You can come, but you better not speak unless we ask you. I don’t want any distractions. And you sure as hell better not walk in front of that TV screen. Understood?”

“Ok, honey.”

The franchise known as the Chargers moved from Los Angeles to San Diego, California in 1961, and although they won the American Football League championship three years after that, nobody remembered or cared. That was before the merger with the NFL, before Lamar Hunt had concocted the idea of a “Super Bowl”. 33 years later, they had finally made it all the way to the title game. This was important, and so, an all-day event.

Boris and Marsha knocked on Brian’s door around 11 am – he with two 12-packs of beer, she with two sacks full of finger food – three hours before game time, three hours of pre-game hype. While the boys watched the interviews and analysis, bitching about what they perceived to be media bias towards the favored San Francisco 49ers, Marsha puttered in the kitchen, filling orders shouted by her husband and occasionally joining them to silently feign interest in the broadcast. She carefully chose a seat closest to the kitchen, so as not to risk blocking the television screen when errands were requested of her.

The last beer for Boris, that being the sedative-spiked beer, was served during the singing of the National Anthem, so that by the time San Francisco was closing in to score their first touchdown, a mere three minutes into the game clock, his eyelids were like anvils.

“Damn, Brian, I’m tired as hell,” he sat up in his chair, struggling to stay awake. “I can’t… keep my eyes open.”

Brian looked at Marsha, then smiled. “Biggest game ever, man. Are you drunk or something?”

“No… no… it’s not that. Maybe… a little nap… I just… need a… …”

Boris could hear the football broadcast when he awoke, but found himself far removed from that comfortable chair. They had draped him face up along the length of a flat, 18-inch high bench, one which Brian normally used for weightlifting. His head rested at one end of the cushioned surface, while the legs were split wide and pulled taut on either side of the lower-middle. With heels resting on the floor, each of Boris’s ankles were wrapped in rope, the opposite ends of which ran about 10 feet along the floor, ending at a couch against the wall opposite the television. Here the ropes were knotted to front feet of the couch, one furthest left and the other furthest right. Pulled tightly, the ropes held his legs bound in a downward, V-shaped stretch.

The wrists were also looped in rope, with each end trailing in opposite directions to circle behind a heavy, solid wood cabinet housing the TV and other electronics. Boris’s arms were flared with elbows nearly straight and the wrists, four feet apart, were pulled down to a level midway between the floor and bench. This combination of shoulders and arms also formed a V shape, while the chest was forced high into the air, thus flattening and stretching the middle-section.

So, the overall appearance was that of a man on an alter, stretched like the letter X, everything from head to buttocks atop the surface, everything else below. And one final note: every thread of the man’s clothing had been stripped away.

Recognizing his confines to be Brian’s living room, Boris strained the neck to satisfy his primary subject of curiosity – the game score: San Francisco 7, San Diego 0. The bench had been placed perpendicular to the television screen, with the head of Boris four feet away. After his tortured glance there, he scanned his surroundings. On the floor lay an arsenal of hardware – metal clips, hooks and rings, a roll of duct tape, some sort of walkie-talkie or remote-control device, plastic bottles and a few unidentifiable items, the purpose of which he could not guess.

First, he tested the wrist restraints to find he could move his arms a few inches left or right, but zero inches in any other direction. Next came the legs, which he tried to draw nearer to his torso, the result being no movement of the couch whatsoever. So, he tried to lift upwards, but despite his powerfully-built frame, the result was the same. All he could accomplish was a one-inch rise of his heels from the floor, taking what little slack existed from the two ropes.

As Boris continued to struggle, he heard the voice of his wife, “Look at those flexing muscles, Brian. Isn’t he the most beautiful sight you’ve ever seen?”

Standing at the kitchen doorway were Marsha and Brian, both naked, except for a chain-link collar fastened tightly around the man’s neck. Tied into a slip-knot, the chain looped through itself just below his Adam’s apple, then the free end trailed to Marsha’s hand, which she used to violently jerk downward and repeat her question, “Answer me. Isn’t he beautiful?”

Jolted, Brian immediately fell to his knees and obeyed, “Yes, Madam. He is a very beautiful man. Please don’t hurt me again.”

“Heel, dog. Do what I say. Don’t make me waste any more energy on you.”

“Marsha,” Boris shouted in stunned disbelief, “what the hell are you doing? Untie these ropes.”

“Oh, honey, I can’t untie you. Those are Brian’s knots. I don’t know anything about it.”

“God damn it! Let me off this thing. We’ve got to see this game.”

“Screw you and your asinine game,” she yanked the chain, forcing Brian to an erect knee-stand, hands clutching the neck chain. “Those losers don’t have a chance anyway. You can hear it, can’t you? They’re already getting their ass kicked.”

“You crazy bitch.” He strained with all his might to break free. “Brian, do something. Marsha’s flipped out on us.”

She pulled the leash and moved towards her prisoner, forcing Brian to crawl and follow. “Brian can’t do shit. He’s here to serve me. He’ll do whatever I say for a taste of this pussy. By the time I’m finished, neither of you will be the least bit concerned with that fucking game.”

Boris gallantly struggled against his bindings. “I’ll strangle you first chance I get. Do you hear me? Let me go, NOW!”

Standing confidently beside the bench, she gave another yank of the chain, “Here, boy, it’s time to shut his god damn mouth.”

Brian dutifully picked up the roll of duct tape he had placed on the floor, tore off a strip and brought it towards the prisoner’s face. To avoid this, Boris violently turned his head side to side, until Marsha was forced to secure him between her hands. “Can’t you do anything right? There, now slap it on.”

With lips sealed, Boris’s attempts at protest were garbled, and so abandoned as useless. Meanwhile, Marsha resumed her taunting. “Don’t fret, honey. I won’t let Brian hurt you. I’m your super bowl, now.” She lifted one leg over him and straddled the bench, leaving her fur-framed cunt to hover above his bulging eyes, then she yanked Brian down to kneel between her husband’s head and the TV. “Stay right there, Fido.”

With her slave motionless, she dropped the trailing chain from her hand and allowed it to fall to the floor, where it hung against the man’s chest and belly. Moving behind him, she took Brian’s left wrist into her hand and bent the elbow, placing his hand onto the small of his back. “Don’t move,” she ordered, while repeating the process with his right hand to leave that forearm stacked above the left.

Grabbing the free end of chain, she pulled it between his legs and yanked hard, which brought pleading from her servant. “Ow, Madam, please, the chain is so tight. It’s crushing my nuts.”

“Shut it, you cur mutt,” Marsha growled, as she kept the chain taut and brought it up through his butt crack towards the forearms. After grabbing a nearby D-ring, Marsha looped the chain around the forearms and wrists repeatedly, using all of the length to keep everything tight. “You’ll take what I give you and like it.” She locked the chain to itself with D-ring through four links, thus completing his restraint.

Brian dropped his head and bent forward, giving slack to the chain and relief to his scrotum, but was violently jerked backwards, as Marsha grabbed the links behind his neck. Immediately, the back arched and chest thrust forward, which again tightened the chain around his neck and under the balls.

“Do not move an inch,” she sneered. “Do it again and I’ll crush your gonads with my very own hands. I’ll crush them like jelly. Got it, bitch?”

“Yes, Madam, I’ll be good. Just don’t hurt me.”

“I’ll do as I please and you can shut your trap. Only speak when I tell you. Otherwise, I’ll slap some tape on your pussy mouth, too.”

Silent, her servant was motionless, chest thrust forward and belly sucked in, as Madam Palfry once again straddled her husband and faced the television screen. Placing both palms onto his chest to steady herself, she brought up her legs one at a time and placed the knees into his flat, tight abdominal muscles.

“Now, Boris Palfry,” she mocked, “lately you seem to think you can treat me like a pile of horse manure. Do you think I married you so I could be your personal slave? Jumping every time you bark? Waiting on you hand and foot? Night and day?”

There was no attempt to answer, but there was a slight groan, especially when Marsha ground her kneecaps back and forth into his hard belly.

“Well, I can tell you I did not,” she answered for him. “And beginning right now, you will learn to show me some respect.”

Boris laid there dumbfounded. Just beyond his head was the defeated Brian, his long-time friend, bound with a single chain running from the neck, down the center of chest and belly, under the scrotum and up to locked-behind-the-back arms. Above him, his once-inferior and obedient wife, glaring down with menacing cruelty, while ruthlessly knee-impaling his belly to pulp. And in the background, the play-by-play man announced, “4th and 8, the Chargers will have to punt.”

“Of course,” she sneered, “they’ll be doing that all day.” She removed the knees and stood to straddle his chest. Placing the hands onto her own nipples, she delicately rubbed and squeezed, then slid the palms down her middle section to touch the vagina. She widened the opening and invited him to observe. “Look, honey. Would you like to stir this super bowl? Stir it with that big dick of yours? The one you never let me see? Or touch? Or taste?”

Glancing behind her, the husband’s penis laid limp, so she plopped down to sit on his chest, then resumed rubbing her own nipples. “Since you don’t seem interested, perhaps dog-boy might like a taste. Would that turn you on, darling? To see your buddy molest your wife?”

Boris stared in awe, as Madam Palfry’s tit massage caused juices to seep out of her spread-open cunt and ooze onto his chest. Further tormenting him, she moved her hips side to side, smearing the lubricant onto his manly hairs, while adding verbal insults along the way. “Look, sweetheart. See what just a little touching does to me? If you’d ever bother to try it yourself, you’d know these things.”

Reaching out with her right hand, Marsha grabbed the left nipple of her chained servant, while continuing to stimulate her own. “How about you, Rex? Would you like me to rip off your tit?”

Between finger and thumb, she viciously twisted and pulled the tip towards her, which caused him to lean forward with a whimper. “I told you not to move, cunt.” Grabbing a handful of hair behind his head, she forced it back with her left hand, while pulling on the nipple with her right. He reacted with a muted whine, coupled with a slight grunt, but obeyed her order of verbal silence.

“You are the lucky dog. Since my husband has no interest in me, I will allow you to suck on my tits. You better be professional about it, or you’ll lose both of yours.”

She pulled him forward by the length of chain running down his chest, forced him to stand, then directed his mouth towards her left breast. Gently, he engulfed the erect nipple between his lips and began to suck, soon incorporating his tongue into the action. For Boris, this was a maddening view. His pal’s hardened cock bobbed above his forehead. His wife’s orb became saliva-slicked. Lips and tongue lovingly caressed and stimulated, while satisfied moans drifted from the female recipient. With a heightened gusto, Brian joined her chorus of audible expressions, slavishly praising the soft-skinned balloon and its ever-hardening tip.

Naturally, Boris felt anger – anger from being bound and helpless, unable to watch his precious football game; anger and disappointment in his wife’s vulgar, inexplicable behavior; anger bordering on rage from being forced to witness her self-instigated desecration.

But there also was a somewhat mysterious, yet undeniable emotion slowly dissolving the first, and that was a yearning – a yearning to break free of his ropes and become a participant, rather than a witness; a desire to lay his own mouth and his own tongue onto her tempting breasts; a longing to unleash his own mighty cock to, in Marsha’s words, “stir this super bowl”.

He did not realize it when the penis came to life. Blood filled the spongy tissues inside its walls and forced the phallus to rise, then flip onto his flattened belly. The subtle smack of skin touching skin did not escape Marsha’s attention, and she spun around to confirm it. Success! A manly tool worthy of his manly physique was aching to join the action. She reached back and clutched her husband’s cock into curled fingers, gently squeezing, before updating him on the football game. “Oh, look honey, your team scored a touchdown. I guess I’ll have to give you a little taste. No, wait, that’s the other team. Sorry, it’s not my fault your guys are no good.”

14 to 0, still in the first quarter, a long ordeal for Charger fans was well under way.

“Wire him up.”

Marsha remained seated on her husband’s chest, while slave-boy Brian removed his mouth from her tit. Following the Madam’s wishes, he retrieved a ring made of rubber, carefully slipping it over the cock shaft, then around and under the ball sac. On the outer surface of the ring at opposite sides were two tiny, metal pins – receptors, and after Brian handed a battery-operated remote device to Ms. Palfry, she turned a dial, sending a small electrical current throughout the innards of the cock ring. A gentle vibration enlivened cock and balls.

The prisoner’s eyes widened, beads of sweat broke onto his forehead, as his wife’s tender, yet near-psychotic gaze mystified him. What were the intentions? Was she truly angry, to the point of inflicting serious damage? Or was it merely a game, a form of pretend punishment designed to please her? And why was Brian only putting up a half-assed resistance? Unable to verbalize his concerns, with no “safe” or “out” words given to him, Boris was forced to trust that his captors knew what they were doing. He only hoped.

Tingling vibrations encompassed an ever-hardening penis. Bulbous balls ballooned. Manly groans rumbled underneath duct tape. Another notch turned on the dial caused the chest to expand, back to arch, belly to flatten and pelvis to thrust upwards. Boris Palfry, fully charged both in mind and body, launched his mighty cock high into the air and reached for the unreachable.

She slid her ass to the end of his sternum, passed the remote to Brian, and delicately fingernail-flicked his nipple tips. “Boris, honey,” she lightly scraped the stretched tits with nails, “you probably didn’t hear it, but the Chargers got a touchdown. Are you happy?”

A muffled “Mmm” and nod of the head was his reply.

“Your man-tits make me drip,” she opened the right one between finger and thumb, then covered it with her mouth, sucking and massaging with lips and tongue. Releasing it, she wet-rubbed the tip with her finger. “Are you still happy?”

A Neanderthal-sounding “Ungh” rumbled under duct tape.

Sharp-edged nails pressed down onto the erect tips of his nipples. A manly groan. More beads of forehead sweat. “Did I ever tell you how much I love your nose?” She raised into a squat and inched forward. “Sculptured, strong,” the salivating clit dangled above his face, “just like you, just like all of you.” She dropped the wedge onto his covered mouth, ramming her juicy cunt into his nostrils. “Breathe, darling. You deserve this. Suck with all your strength.”

He lustfully inhaled her, first from want, then for oxygen, very little of which was allowed. An inch was given and he recovered, then again was smothered, as the majestic nose disappeared into a sizzling cut of fur-lined filet.

“Come here, slave,” she summoned the collared one.

Once within reach, she grabbed the chain trailing down his chest and forced him to kneel at the head-end of the bench. “This is for you, cur, not him.” Lifting her hips to reposition, the green light was given, “Now, feast.”

With his wife’s aromatic ass rim hovering inches above his nose, the prisoner was forced to watch the slave eat pussy. A wet tongue expertly teased the hooded cover, then delved into its pulsating meat. Probing deeper, a gradual intensity produced a frothing combo – male, oral spit, female, vaginal slickum – a heavenly mixture dripping into the burning eyes of a man tormented.

He now was fully aware of his neglected cock, gyrating with electrically-charged energy, lustfully bouncing on his belly with each accelerated heartbeat. Lubricant of his own making splattered onto tightened, writhing abdominal muscles, darkening the fur trail with beads of syrup.

Sounds stimulated. Slurping suction, moans of ecstasy – high-pitched, low-pitched – echoed from ceiling and walls, usurping whatever drivel beamed from the nearby boob tube. Female hands cupped female breasts. Fingers and thumbs pinched hardened tips. Pre-orgasmic shrieks crescendoed, then were silenced, as Madam P clutched the dog-collar chain to viciously cast her lover aside, “Well done, whore. Now, get out of my sight.”

Taking the remote from him, she stepped away from the bench to absorb a glorious side-view of her bound prisoner. Writhing, flexing, thrusting into nothingness, his agony only further heightened the intense pressure building in her loins. She longed to mount him – to finish him; to finish herself, but all such thoughts were to be squashed. Unknown heights of pleasure were yet to be explored, and the bladder reminded her that other issues should be addressed. Madam P turned the dial to zero and set the remote on the floor.

“I see that it’s halftime and I will be watching the festivities. The score is Niners 28, Chargers 7. Your situation seems hopeless, but relax, my darling. Perhaps you can mount a comeback.”

She met Brian as he exited the bathroom and they conversed out of character. “God, Brian, this is so much fun.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Looks ok to me. I turned off the voltage, so you better get the bottle and let him piss.”

She closed the door and emptied her own bladder, too.

End Part 2. To be continued.

Copyright © 2006 Jardonn

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