Second-half Blowout (Super Bowl Sunday Part 3)

As Brian removed the urine-filled bottle from a mostly faded penis, Marsha brought a chair from the kitchen table, positioned it to the right of her husband’s chest, and sat facing the television. In her left hand, the cock ring controller; in her right, a bottle of isopropyl alcohol. “Bet you really had to pee, huh?” He nodded. “Would you like another beer?” He nodded. “Well, I suppose you can have… Oh, look, honey, there’s Patti LaBelle. I just love her.”

Boris Palfry did not strain to look, instead turning his head away in frustration. Nor did he bother to look when he felt a wet finger touch his right nipple. He had seen the bottle and knew its contents were harmless, but what he did not know was the effect it would have on the stretched and sensitive knob. After an initial burn, a stinging coolness caused the skin to contract, forcing the tip to elevate well above his chest. A layer to the left nipple was followed by a second one to the right, and a finger gently rubbed the liquid in small circles.

Turning the dial to number one, she laid the remote onto the center of his downward-sloping stomach, and he raised the head to witness another brutal assault on his defenseless tits. Boris was confronted with a new dilemma. His nipples were responding to the stinging of alcohol and massaging of fingers. Outside, the circles expanded from heat, then shrank from cold. Inside, amazing sensations of masculine power overwhelmed, causing him to feel as though he were some sort of manly hero. Lowering the head, he felt the ropes binding his wrists and pulled against them – not to escape, but to flex, pose and display his incredible physique. Boris had never fancied himself to be such a man, but this assault on his nipples seemed to be changing his attitude. More convincing was soon to come.

“Hey, you,” Marsha barked to her servant, just arrived from dumping the urine bottle, “put some on his nuts.” He approached and she removed the D-ring, unwrapping the chain to release his arms, but as he reached for the alcohol, Brian was greeted with a backhanded slap to the cheek. “Not mine, you moron. Get another bottle. And keep quiet. Tony Bennett’s about to perform.”

The prisoner’s cock was quickly resurrected. A one-notch turn of the dial caused it to majestically rise, slide along the thigh and rest in the crook between leg and pelvic bone. Fresh coats of alcohol onto finger-massaged tits completed the ascent, as an involuntary scrotum clinch launched it into the air. Relaxing the clinch brought it slamming down onto the belly. An initial layer onto the testicles, compliments of Brian, caused the pulsating tool to dance upon flattened muscle, leaving dots of slick discharge with each contact.

Burning, stinging, cooling, the alcohol attacked both nipples and nuts, transporting the bound hero into a fantasy land. His head lifted. He admired his own glorious form. Real restraints dramatized the image of pretend torture. Testosterone raged throughout his bloodstream, as he struggled against the ropes, flexing himself in a mighty pose of resolve.

He gave no forethought to what was happening. They had taken him to a place of exploration, a place maddeningly exciting. With no intention of leaving, his mind joined the body in participation.

Beneath the tape, his lips mumbled manly expressions of defiance. “Damn sons-a-bitches, think you can break me. I’m too much man for both of you.”

Marsha could see, feel and hear what was happening. The protective walls her husband had built for himself were crumbling, and she prepared to complete the demolition.

“Halftime is over.” She stepped towards the television, pressed the power off, and glared at Boris. “So is the football game, as far as you’re concerned. Your contest is with me now, tough guy.”

To the collared servant she growled, “Wet those nuts every 30 seconds, if you can count that far.”

Lifting the remote from her bound prisoner’s stomach, she turned the dial to three and set it on the bench near its foot end. Her servant, who was straddling the bench near Boris’s knees and bent forward towards the target, continued to transfer stimulating liquid from fingers to nuts, carefully painting the swollen orbs on top, bottom, underneath and in between. Isolated and lifted by the vibrating ring, the testicles surpassed human qualities, appearing to Brian as the balls of a mighty bull – vibrant, full of life, full of impatiently waiting sperm.

A manly groan accompanied a pelvic thrust. The fully-hardened cock stood, suspended in mid-air, suspended in time, seconds counted by the Madam… 7… 8… 9… 10, until finally, the electrified tool collapsed onto his belly, only to react from contact of corona to muscle, thus rising to begin the count anew.

For Marsha, a dramatic side-view brought salivation between jaws and thighs. Her hero strained against the wrist-binding ropes. Fists clenched. Chest expanded. Nipple tips pierced the air, while exaggerated exhales flattened the belly. Massive thighs exploded. Sinewy calf ligaments contorted. Manly feet undulated – toes curling forward, toes arching backward, and all the while, he stared at her with eyes lustful, yearning, begging, the expressions so long denied her, the emotions so long concealed, finally stripped and laid bare.

Sweat – glistening, masculine sweat, highlighted every line, every curve, every bulge of his body, and the language it spoke tempted her, inviting her to ravage. She knelt beside the flexing belly and heaving chest. She listened to each release of air. She heard deep-toned, guttural, cave-man grunts. The dominant male demanded his woman, but was powerless to take her.

“Why do you make me torture you?” The right hand slid under his cock head to deep-massage the brick-wall belly. “No one wants you to suffer this way.” The left hand lay flat on his chest, moving side to side, savagely rubbing the erect nipples. “I can’t bear to see you like this.” Lips pressed his stomach, planting kisses. “You are so strong.” Tongue tasted his sweat. “Such a man.” Nose inhaled his musk. “I will worship you like a god. I will put you on a pedestal, the manliest man ever to grace the earth.”

Into her fist she clutched his cock shaft, lifting it to vertical. Out of the tube came masculine syrup, which oozed from the slit to coat its mushroom head.

“Hold this,” she ordered. “Hold it in your mouth.”

The servant wrapped wet lips over the bulging cock head, stopping at the umbrella-like rim extending from the shaft. In response, Boris convulsed and tried to thrust his pelvis upwards, but was thwarted by the wife’s hands, which were firmly planted into his belly.

“Clamp it tightly,” she whispered,” but don’t work it. If you make him shoot, I will castrate you. Do you hear me? I will literally remove your dangling balls. Cut them and eat them.”

With curved fingers, she manipulated the hard-muscled abdominals. Her victim arched his back, tightening the middle, then dramatically exhaled, relaxing the middle. She heard him groan, saw him strain the legs – not to pull them together, but to push them apart, begging for a resumption of testicle torture.

Again with a whisper Marsha ordered, “Layer his ‘nads.”

Her hero raised the head when he felt renewed stinging on his nuts, first looking to her, then to his cock, its mushroom hidden by the lips of his best friend. The idea of having a man’s mouth upon his penis might have caused apprehension under normal circumstances. The idea that Brian might be capable of such an act had never occurred to him. This circumstance was far from normal, and considering where he had been and where he was going, neither fact was given a thought. With an ecstatic, upward roll of the eyes, followed by a muted, agonizingly long and breath-released, “Uuunnnggghhh”, Boris collapsed. He was surrendered, willing to accept anything they wanted to give him.

The moment for which she had so long waited had arrived. Her eyes locked onto it, trance-like. Inhaling caused it to become thick, solid, impenetrable. Exhaling caused it to explode with powerful lines and curves. A singular, deep ridge formed at the pit of the stomach, ran to the navel and disappeared beneath one line of narrow, then widening man fur.

Into this heaven she buried her face. On the surface, soft and cushioned, but just beneath was a wall of concrete, a bunker of protection. Breathing through her mouth, she pressed down harder, and harder, but the barrier could not be broken. Here was the ultimate definition of masculine strength. Here was nothing but muscle, no bone to protect the innards. Here was the apex of a man’s vulnerability, for regardless of whatever fat might be collected and stored there, the muscle underneath, when tensed, was masterfully designed to protect him from any assault. To surrender it, to offer it up to the whims of another, this is the pinnacle of trust.

Her man, her husband, gave her this gift. His belly was 100 percent rock-solid, but she felt it give way beneath her. She thanked him for her gift with kisses – not delicate kisses, but deep, penetrating, face-burying kisses. Every inch was attacked, from the pit of the stomach to the belly button and beyond. From the pubic hair, she began her return to the stomach with tongue licks – not dry, tip-of-the-tongue licks, but full-appendage, loaded with spit, sliming licks. She tasted and removed his sweat, while leaving behind her saliva.

And then she came to the center of it all – his super bowl. Where life itself had begun. The knot. The place where momma fed him before he left that world of darkness. The doctor had tied his knot so you could see it. The rim of his belly button framed what was, in Marsha’s mind, the most beautiful gob of skin she could ever imagine. It laid ever so slightly beneath the belly itself, clearly visible and readily available. Her tongue teased, first moistening the edged rim, then moving like a whirlpool, round and round and gradually down, finding its way to his belly button. She wet-scraped its surface, then used the tip of her tongue to drill him a new hole. Streams of spit ran down her tongue and into this hole, spilling over the rim to flow in all directions, tributaries forming on the belly’s surface.

Marsha knew she had tamed him. Her belly button worship brought painfully pleasured moans each time he exhaled. And, as further proof, these air releases seemed to last forever. After breathing out, he’d hold position and force his belly to remain in its most flattened, most vulnerable stature, while the woman’s tongue mercilessly impaled the knotted navel.

Brian also knew. He watched the belly attack in amazement, while he continued to alcohol rub the testicles. In his mouth, the man’s penis swelled to incredible strength. A constant buzz came from the cock ring at its base, but at the head, where Brian’s lips held firm, rippling reverberations exploded. Pulses of power coinciding with each heartbeat pounded on Brian’s oral vise, triggered by the slavish worship of a woman’s tongue. He dared not move. Any added stimulation would push their hero over the edge, and Brian had no desire to receive the man’s seed. That was reserved for Marsha – the only reason for any of this.

Clutching the shaft of her husband’s cock, she motioned for Brian to release him, then laid the surging man-tool onto a glistening-with-spit belly. “Stay still.” She took his dangling chain and stood. “Come with me.” With a gentle tug of chain, she guided him to the end of the bench, then whispered, “Get down there and lick his foot.”

Stepping over the bench, she straddled and smothered her victim’s writhing torso. His cock was wedged between titties; the gut assaulted by lips, face and tongue; his chest and nipples ravaged by palms, fingers and nails. She undulated towards his contorting face, sliding inch by inch, mixing his sweat with hers. Hardened breasts scraped along his dramatic, sloping abdomen, as her stomach crushed his tortured cock head. Climbing the mountain, her tits reached the mighty chest. That salivating pussy hole lingered atop the phallic masterpiece, then moved onward to further slime his stomach. Hands and fingers clutched his hair and massaged the scalp, while lips and tongue moved from one tormented nipple to the other, kissing, sucking, licking.

Breathless, she sat upright, clamping his chest between thighs. The man beneath her, the pitiful, tortured soul, desperately lifted his head, straining to bury an anguished face into that tantalizing V, so close, yet so out of reach.

“You are mine, Boris Palfry,” she lifted off of him and maneuvered her twat above his head. “You are mine forever,” she violently ripped the tape from his mouth and replaced it with pussy. “I’m never letting you go. You belong to me. Understand?”

Garbled agreement intermingled with thirst-quenching slurps.

“Only I can give you what you must have.”

His lips encompassed the top and bottom of her vaginal slit, while the tongue snaked its way into darkness, searching for the little G, the vibrating peter, his prize.

“You are a god to me. I must worship, but you must sacrifice all. I will have every inch of you, or I will have none of you.”

Non-verbal acceptance came from below. His mouth could only express a gurgling, “Mmm hmm,” as he frantically choked on tasty juices.

Her body shuddered when the tongue made contact with that heavenly spot. Her voice squeaked when its wet-sandpapered surface scraped what it had found. But this was not the orgasm she had worked so hard to achieve. She stood, denying both herself and him.

Finally able to speak, Boris said nothing – nor did Marsha, nor did Brian. Physical expressions circumvented all talk.

Brian dutifully slimed the right foot and its toes. Marsha joined in on the left foot. Not knowing or caring who was worshiping which, the hypnotized man arched back all toes and spread them wide, sacrificing his masculine feet to this incredible praise. The tongues visited thick-skinned soles, racing upon strong arches, rough heels and rounded ball joints. Exploring further, they slithered in between the great and second toes, oiling the skin with foaming spit before moving between second and third to repeat the assault.

Coinciding with this intense praise of the feet, hands created hot, rubbing friction from knees to ankles, while finger squeezes crushed thick calf muscle. His reaction was a crazed writhing, a torturous arching of the spine to a degree of near-snapping, or so it appeared.

He was rescued by a straddling of the bench. With each hand holding one bottle, she dumped the contents of both, saturating his chest and belly with mesmerizing alcohol. Into her hand, he was held vertical; into her cunt, he was given his reward. She angled the bulging mushroom head to make direct contact with her yearning clitoris, then hugged the thickness of his massive cock. It was a vaginal death clamp, crushing, inhaling. No further action was needed, as both were primed for explosion. Two became one. Milk spewed.

They froze in a statuesque pose – the dominant male beneath, back curved to the maximum his bindings would allow, the praising female above, hands pressed into his tightened belly. Neither participant breathed. Eyes shut, mouths agape, all movement was confined to contracting muscles of sex, until, as if on cue they violently exhaled, emitting animalistic cries of unbridled pleasure. Collapsing, contorting, convulsing, they simultaneously erupted to vanquish all pent-up frustrations, all secretive sadness, to enter a magical world they would never leave. He belonged to her – all of him, and she fell forward to press her lips with his, to flatten her breasts with his, leaving no separation between.

This is the sight that greeted Brian when he stood, his own personal satisfaction, as he absorbed the mesmerizing reunion of this man and this woman. With three strokes of the hand, he spewed his own seed, not caring upon whom or what it landed. He had brought them together in the beginning; he had guided their rediscovery today. With a woman’s head resting peacefully on a man’s chest, that man’s buried penis basking in the loving confines of unyielding devotion, Brian Shields reached down to the bench, turned the dial and moved it to zero.

Super Bowl XXIX was a sad, sad day for many San Diego residents, but not for the Palfry’s, nor their best friend. In fact, their Super Bowl party continued into the next morning, transferred from the living room to the bedroom. Without ropes, Boris proved to be that manly god his wife claimed him to be, sacrificing himself to the praise of two, then satisfying both with other-worldly eruptions. Brian was the swing man and oral expert, equally excited to pleasure the cunt of one or cock of the other – and everything in between.

As for the Palfry’s together, all was complete. No need for him to give commands – politely or otherwise, because she knew exactly what he needed at all times. And when she was ready, his body was hers. With plenty of light, tied up or no, Boris gladly posed and flexed, spouting dramatic expressions of the tortured hero, before flooding her with everything she desired. All of him, that’s what Marsha demanded, and Boris could not be satisfied any other way.

Do not pity poor Boris. He is the happiest man in the world.

The End

Copyright © 2006 Jardonn

Visit Jardonn’s Erotic Tales