The List 23: It Eyes are for Being Blindfolded

Click here to start with Part 1

Previously: Finally, somewhere, the sensation started to fade. It couldn’t last, never did, but it would be there again. She dropped the paddle on the floor, and moved in front of him. She lifted up the bucket again, but this time worked the clamp loose and pulled it out of his nose. “Ugh.” Her face crinkled and she tilted her head back. “Go wash your face, blow your nose, and hurry back. I need to do something about those pretty eyes.”

He stumbled back into the bedroom with beads of water on his hairline and chin. She whistled and motioned him over. He walked over to where she stood and dropped to his knees, scooting the last couple of feet.

She wrapped the elastic band of the sleep mask around his head and centered the black pads over his eyes, wrapped a scarf over the mask, and followed with duct tape that clamped against itself and pulled the cloth down tighter.

“We’re going to play a game now, it’s called Mouth or Ass. I’m going to hold up an object, and you tell me if you want it used on your mouth, or your ass.”

He leaned towards her, and thought the words over carefully. “Am I allowed to change my mind, ma’am?”

Her laugh floated across the room. “Sure, but I think the more important question is if you are allowed to try to change my mind.”

“Am I? Allowed to try to change your mind, ma’am?” He turned his head slightly, trying to find her in the darkness.

She bit her lip, and looked at him. Scenarios bounced back and forth in her mind. Did she want to control him, or let him make the choices? Which was more appealing, to own his body and inflict it, or let him make his own decisions and suffer the consequences? Finally, she shrugged and cleared her throat. “If you ask very, very nicely, I suppose I might change my mind. I might even be persuaded to give you hints, if you ask very nicely.” The middle ground seemed best, she could always make the choice on the fly and pretend it was what she had intended all along.

She plowed on before she could start to second guess herself. “First up. Mouth or ass?”

He shrugged, paused, and then sank to his knees. “May I please have a hint ma’am?”

“Ooh, on your knees? I like you like that, but I can’t get to your mouth easily. Try another position and ask again.”

He stood back up carefully, then leaned forward and put his hands on his knees. “May I please have a hint ma’am?”

“How do you like the taste of hair?”

He grinned, imagining running his tongue along her slit, the short hair teasing his chin and rubbing against his lips. “Mouth please, ma’am.” His head jerked as the hard bristles of the hair brush slid into his mouth.

Her mouth clamped down on his hair, jerking his head back into place and shoving her hairbrush into his mouth. She explored his gullet and violated his mouth, scraping the hard bristles along his tongue and cheek, letting them push against his teeth. She slid it back into his mouth slowly, letting stray hairs and debris fall off the bristles into his mouth, and waited until it just barely… triggered his gag reflex. His throat convulsed and she let the hairbrush fall out of his mouth, grinning down at him. “Were you expecting something else?”

His tongue worked its way in and out of his mouth, with his face making a sour frame around it. “Yes ma’am, may it please try to change your mind?”

“Ooh, I suppose.” She clenched her jaw, watching his expression and holding the laugh deep inside her. Her hand let go of his hair, and she stepped back, then poked his chin with the hairbrush. He jumped and the laugh escaped, and she took another step back. “Well?”

He sank back to his knees, then his hands, then slowly turned in what he hoped was a circle so his face was away from her. “Please ma’am, use the hairbrush on its ass. It deserves to be disciplined and beaten.”

She ran the flat part of the brush along his ass-cheeks, and hummed to herself. “It’s a start, but I’m not quite convinced. Why do you deserve to be disciplined and beaten?”

He felt his thoughts getting fuzzy, the humiliating words rushing to get out of his mouth, fighting his instincts not to say them. “I watch disgusting internet pornography — Ah!” The hairbrush crashed into his already tenderized ass, and he lurched forward.

The hard plastic left a bright red imprint, and her words got cold and flat. “Well, keep convincing me. Or I’ll shove this down your throat until you puke.”

“Ugh, I’m a horrible person.” Splat, pain seared across his body again. “I play with my disgusting cock in the shower.” And again. “I actually get pleasure from jerking off that revolting piece of flesh.” And again.

Each sentence, each confession, ended in searing pain. He debased and humiliated himself, cataloging failures and perceived failures, and she administered pain for each one. The beating went on until he was sobbing, gasping the words out between choking sounds. He confessed to being a whore, of fantasizing about women forcing themselves on him, of jerking himself off while thinking of being chained to a urinal where they pissed on him and he licked his food off a filthy bathroom floor, of cleaning the floor with his tongue, licking up mud and piss and the sexual fluids of strangers. Of begging to be spit and pissed on just to wash the taste out of his mouth. Of the chain being unlocked one day, and just crawling to a corner and starting to lick the floor again.

She kept hitting him with the hairbrush, helping him turn the shame and humiliation into a physical pain he could survive, that would fade. His ass turned pink, then red, then black and blue as blood vessels popped and tissue bruised. She listened to him sink lower and lower for her, wondering how far he would go, loving the sounds of his sobs and words, ready to pull him back up if he needed it.

Eventually he couldn’t speak, and she kept beating him to the rhythm they had established. Finally, when he couldn’t even gasp or cry anymore, she stopped and gently ran her hand down his spine up to his head. She jerked his head up by his hair, and leaned down to whisper in his ear. “My god a disgusting animal.”

He moaned and leaned closer to her, and she bit down on his ear playfully. “I can’t believe I let something as disgusting as you near my cunt. As a matter of fact, I think it’s time your head went into the bag.”

Preview: Heads are for being stuffed in a bag. Wasn’t that a Joe Pesci movie?

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

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The List 20: Its Mouth is for Being Gagged, Silencing it and Letting Drool Fall Out

Click here to start with Part 1

Previously: She watched him in the small screen on her phone, and drifted off into a soft haze, thinking about what she’d be doing with that mouth next.

She woke up from half sleep to the sensation of his tongue gently circling her ass. There was an appreciative murmur before she reluctantly raised her head and looked back at him. The words written on his stomach slipped in and out of view, and her eyes narrowed.

“All right, you can stop now.” He slid to his knees at the end of the bed, watching her as she rolled over onto her back, yawned and stretched, and sat up. She rolled off the bed and scratched the smooth skin under her breast, then frowned. “Ugh, I need a shower, and you need to keep working on your list. Take the sticks off your face.”

He slid the rubbed bands off the ends of the wooden rods keeping his tongue out of his mouth, and pulled his tongue back into his mouth, breathing hard and enjoying the sudden freedom. He was working his jaw and running his tongue along the roof of his mouth when she clamped one hand on his jaw, pried it open, and slipped the o-ring gag behind his teeth.

He exhaled as she buckled the strap behind his head, his jaw forced into another unnatural shape. She walked out of the room and came back with the small mirror that hung in the hallway. It went on the desk while got the marker out of the desk drawer, and started to write.

“Turn around, I need to see what you’ll be for the foreseeable future.” He rotated around his knees until he was facing her, and she nodded in approval and went back to making big, block letters on the mirrors surface. “Boot-licker. Cunt-licker. Piss slut. Hole. Slave. Cum dumpster.” She sang the words in a high voice, then sighed happily and went over each letter again, darkening it.

She put the mirror on the floor in front of him. “Hands and knees, please.” He leaned forward, and drool slid out of his mouth onto the mirror, coating his reflection in spit.

“Clean the mirror, and think about what each word means.” She frowned, and then pursed her lips. “Hm.” She reached over into the drawer and found a plastic drop cloth, which landed by him with a thud. “Put this down, I don’t want you getting ink on the carpet.” She stood up. “Meanwhile, I’m going to take a shower. Be finished before I am.”

He tore open the plastic packaging and worked the drop cloth under the mirror, making sure he had plenty of room to rest his hands. She walked into the bathroom and he heard water starting to run. His reflection stared back at him, “piss-slut” written over his eyes. Drool poured out of his mouth, and he moved his head back and forth across the mirror. He balanced on one hand while he used the other to smear the spit around, getting it on all the letters, letting them soak up the moisture while he started working on the first letter of the first word.

Boot-licker. His reflection stared back at him as he worked his finger along the first letter, scrubbing it away. Of being down on his knees, working his tongue along the leather. The slightly acrid smell, the taste, the deep blackness shining back at him. The warm, soft feeling of having a task to complete that he enjoyed. His tongue slipping into his mouth just long enough to kiss the toe of each boot before he moved to the other. Of her, being there, taking in and accepting his act of obeisance, of loving him and creating a place where he could do this and feel safe.

Cunt-licker. Tasting her. Pleasing her. Working his tongue against her body until she lost control and came with thunderous jerks and starts. Breathing through his nose, focusing on her pleasure until she came, working his tongue against her, the feeling of he legs wrapping around his head and jerking him closer.

Piss slut. Being on his knees with his head tilted back, waiting for her. Her grinning face above him, teasing him, pulling her labia apart and positioning her hips perfectly. Letting her piss spray across his face until it found his mouth, saturating his taste buds. The sensation of consuming her, of swallowing her piss, of feeling it slide down his throat until there was a horrible warmth in his stomach. The knowledge that some part of her was seeping into his cells as the piss flowed through his body.

Hole. Violation. Things entering his body. His mouth and ass stretching, his throat convulsing. She loved his triggering his gag reflex, the wet choking sounds that came from him as she worked a dildo further into his mouth, pushing it as slowly as she could and trying to pinpoint the exact moment his muscles would convulse and retching sounds would pour out of him. The intimacy of changing his body and invading it, of penetrating him, of testing his mental strength as his internal organs were pushed and rearranged.

Slave. The warmth of trust from letting control go. Not worrying, not knowing, obeying and being rewarded. The joy she radiated when he loved her enough to let her make decisions for him, knowing she wouldn’t hurt him. Permanently, anyway.

Cum dumpster. The disgusting sensation of his semen sliding down his tongue, working its way into his throat until he grimaced and swallowed. Knowing she would love him after even the most degrading acts. Doing those things for her, the little murmur of appreciation, the way her fingers twitched a little when she was excited, urging him to clean his mess up off the floor or lick it out of a dog bowl. Of her forcing him just a little further than he would go himself, of taking him to a part and chaining him to the glory hole, inviting the guests to spray hot, sticky semen in his mouth. Of her helping him put himself back together when he was done.

The words were gone from the mirror, and his reflection stared back at him. It was slightly distorted, the mirror still wet, traces of magic marker still on its surface. Drool continued to seep from his mouth, and he shifted his hips to catch it in his hand.

He jumped as he noticed her feet, then leaned back and looked up. She was wrapped tightly in her robe, hair still wet, and looking down at him. “It’ll do, until I get you some glass cleaner. But it wasn’t done before I got back, so I’m afraid you’re going to have to suffer. Just remember who wrote ears are for hearing orders on their list during this next part.”

Preview: Ears are for hearing orders. And making ear wax.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

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The List 19: Its Tongue is for Licking Boots, Cunt, and Ass: Part 1

Click here to start with Part 1

Previously: She shrugged. “I just wanted to see you sweat, and it worked fine for me. Go dump this in the toilet, and meet me in the bedroom. I think I have a use for your tongue.”

He frowned and trudged to the bathroom, holding the red cup of cooling piss in front of him. He swished the contents a little, trying to figure out if it was his or not. He poured the noxious yellow liquid down the toilet, rinsed the cup in the sink, and tossed it in the trash.

He turned and caught his reflection in the mirror. The words written on his stomach in big block letters stared back at him. Boot-licker. Cunt-licker. Piss slut. Hole. Slave. Cum dumpster. All words he had asked to have written on his body, all things he had begged her to turn him into. He exhaled and caught a whiff of his own breath, making a sour face at the acid smell of urine. “May I please rinse my mouth out, ma’am?” He shouted the question across the house, and awkwardly swallowed.

Her nose crinkled as she tried not to imagine the smell. “Ugh, god yes, please do.”

He used his hands to scoop water into his mouth, swished it around, then spit it out. He tried it again, then finished with mouthwash and walked back to the bedroom. He stood in front of her, and she raised an eyebrow. “Knees.”

He dropped to his knees, looking up at her. She was still naked except for the socks and boots she had pulled on earlier, and his eyes wandered from her cunt up to her tits to her face. She let the eyebrow drop, and nodded. “Tongue out.”

He stuck his tongue out, and she grabbed it with one hand, pulling on it until it was out as far as possible. She used her other hand to put bamboo skewers on the top and bottom of his tongue, against his mouth. She stuck her own tongue out and waggled it at him, then laughed. “Its tongue doesn’t belong in its mouth, now does it?”

“Nuh if dozent ma’uhm.” He mumbled the words, too many consonants and not enough vowels rolling off his trapped tongue.

“No it doesn’t ma’am.” She sang the words back to him, pronouncing them carefully and clearly. “Because its tongue doesn’t belong in its mouth, its for licking boots, cunt, and ass.” She paused for a second, enjoying the sight of him on his knees, his tongue stretched out just for her, the bruises and lacerations on his legs, the words written on his stomach. “Well, get started.”

Drool ran out of his mouth as he scooted back and leaned down to run his tongue across her boots. The wet skin crawled across the black leather slowly, starting at the tip until it reached the laces. He switched from foot to foot, more drool falling out of the corners or his mouth, squeezing down further on his knees to push his tongue harder against her boots.

She took a step back, then another, making him chase her around the room, crawling on his hands and knees with his mouth open and his tongue hanging out. After a few steps she let him catch her, take a few desperate licks, then stepped away again. She moved faster, and he crawled faster, keeping his head down, trying to reach her boots as quickly as possible.

She stepped away and spread her legs, making him shuffle from boot to boot. “Is your tongue getting dry?” His answer was an unintelligible growl, a tangled mess of consonants and grunts, which she took to be more or less an affirmative. “Head up, look at me.”

He gave her boot one last lick and pushed himself up so he was on kneeling, looking up at her. She grabbed his chin with one hand, and leaned over. Carefully, she spit on his tongue, letting the saliva drop from her mouth onto the protruding flesh. With one finger she worked the puddle of spit in a circle, rubbing it down the length of his tongue from the tip to where the chopsticks sank into the muscle and forced it to remain out of his mouth.

He dropped back down to his hands and knees and started running his tongue over her boots again. Working along the sides, chasing her around the room like an animal, smashing the side of his face against the carpet to reach the soles when she rocked back on her heel and raised the toe.

She let him lick her boots until she could see the tension slump from his shoulders, until there was no hesitation between her moving and his following. Until they were connected, until they felt like one person moving, reacting to the same impulses.

She let it go on for awhile, until it was time to push deeper. “On your knees. That tongue has other uses.”

Author’s Note: Hi all! I am slammed this week, so this will be a two-parter. That way you get something, and I don’t have to be behind on the things I do to make my Benjamins.

Preview: Mouths are for being grmrmphhged.

Copyright Jerry Jones. Unauthorized use is prohibited.

Want to support the author (who is me)? Buy a compilation of some of my favorite stories on this blog for your e-reader at Smashwords or Amazon.

The List 13: Its Stomach is for Having Degrading Words Written On

Click here for part 1

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.