December 2, 2013
The List 13: Its Stomach is for Having Degrading Words Written On
From part 12: She grinned down at him, and licked her lips with exaggerated sensuality. “Now, about your stomach.”
She hopped up long enough to get the keys and a magic marker, then squatted down to undo the cuffs. She let out a soft, happy sigh as the cuffs opened and his hands slid down to his sides. She tossed them under the bed where neither of them would step on them, and stood up. Her foot nudged his side. “Roll over, that stomach isn’t being put to very good use.”
He sighed back and rolled over, stretching his arms and putting his hands behind his head. He grinned up at her, and she lightly kicked his leg. “I wouldn’t be so happy if I were you. There are… consequences to the writing this time.”
He frowned. “Consequences? What kind of consequences?”
“Yep.” She grinned and licked her lips. “We can write anything you want, but I get to make it happen until the writing fades away.”
His frown deepened. “So if you write cum dumpster, wait, that’s not cool.”
“I know.” She sat down beside him, and pulled the lid off the marker. She gave him an innocent look, and let the tip of the marker hover above his stomach. “So what do you want me to write? You want to be a cum dumpster for a few days?”
“Give me a second here.” He tried to think, to remember how long it took the magic marker to fade away to illegibility. Could he scrub it off sooner? She moved the pen in a circle over his stomach, and started making ticking noises. Signs she was getting bored, and might start making decisions for him. He thought quickly, and decided to chose something safe. “Please write boot-licker, ma’am.”
She snorted and rolled her eyes, but started writing down the side of his stomach. The pen stopped, and she looked back at him. “Well?”
He licked his lips, still trying to work through all the implications, trying to think of the usual words, but consider what it would mean if they became reality. “Cunt-licker?”
She sighed, and started writing the words just above the others. “Someone is playing it safe. My advice would be to make it interesting, or we can start over and maybe by the time we get to your stomach you’ll have some good words for me.”
He flinched, the pain in his feet and legs, the raw, hairless skin on his testicles reminding him how the day had gone so far. “Piss slut, ma’am.”
Her head nodded slightly. “Better.” He could feel her pressing down on the marker harder, going over the letters twice, making them darker, making them last longer. “I do enjoy peeing on you, and I imagine I could find some friends willing to piss all over you, or at least collect a few jars. I mean, a slut should really want all the piss he could get in his filthy mouth, shouldn’t he?”
He felt his cock twitch, and wondered if she was bluffing, but knew that asking or arguing would only push her further. “Yes, ma’am.”
She dotted the i with a little heart, and looked poked him between two ribs with the end of the pen. “Come on, I’ve got lots of space left, and you’ve only got three words.”
His jaw worked, but no words came out. All the possible consequences of the words written on his body coming true, of being unable to stop them for days, until the writing faded, overwhelmed him. His thoughts retreated, and all he could think of was the conflicting humiliation and desire of being treated like a sex toy, a cum dumpster, a fuck pig, a hole.
She started to get up. “We started with caning the feet, didn’t we? Why don’t I just get the cane.”
“Hole ma’am, hole.” He blurted out the word, trying not to think of the consequences, and she slowly sat back down.
“All right, if you want to be a hole, we’ll make you a hole.” She shifted her weight slightly and wrote the word just above his navel, the felt tip tickling as it moved across his skin. “Next?”
“Ugh.” He groaned, and forced the word out. “Slave, ma’am.”
“Oh, I like that one.” He could feel her making large, block letters on his stomach. The tip of the pen moved back and forth, making the letters darker and bolder, making sure they would last longer. “I have a lot of chores that need doing, and the perfect little burlap bag for you to wear while you do them. And of course I’ll be punishing you harshly for any mistakes or delays in getting them done.”
She hummed happily as she pushed the marker down hard into his skin, making him, making sure the word would last as long as possible. She looked her work over critically, then darkened in a curve of the s and smiled at him. “I think we have room for one more word, and some of these aren’t even degrading. I mean does licking my cunt really degrade you? It’s probably more degrading to me, wouldn’t you say?”
His head jerked, his brain desperate to stay safe in warm fantasy where consequences could be ignored, and he gasped out the words. “Yes ma’am.”
“So what do we think the final word should be?”
He whimpered, caught between his desires and his fears. Finally, he forced the words out. “Cum dumpster ma’am.”
Her nose wrinkled, and she tilted her head. “Oh really? You’re sure?”
“Yes ma’am.” He whimpered.
She thought for a second, then decided to drive him down a little further, force him to participate in the obscene ritual. “Say please.”
He exhaled and then inhaled, trying not to think about the words. “Please make me a cum dumpster, ma’am.”
She smiled and patted his head gently. “Since you asked so nicely, I’ll do that for you. On your side, so I can write legibly.”
He rolled over, and she leaned one arm against him and carefully began to write. “Such a nice cum dumpster. I suppose that will mean regular milkings, with you licking your cum off the floor.” He shivered, and she waited for him to stop before she continued. “Or maybe we’ll save it up, and just before the letters fade, you can drink it all down for me. How long do you think it’ll take for the letters to disappear? How much of your cum do you think I can squeeze out of your balls in that amount of time?”
His cock twitched. She smiled at the sight, put the lid back on the marker, and licked her lips. “You stay there, and let that get nice and dry.”
She let her eyes roam over the words written on his body, and felt a warm sensation run through her body. This had been foreplay, and the anticipation was delicious. But hitting his chest, punching him, listening to his little gasps and moans as she injured his flesh with her hands, that was immediate gratification. And she wanted him well rested, so it would last awhile.
Preview: A chest is for being punched, aye, isn’t it?
Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.