The Twenty Five Orgasms for Mistress Cheryl

The bedroom was cool, but a flush of anticipation warmed Sub's skin as he lay on the bed, naked but for a single leather belt around his waist, watching Mistress Cheryl move with a deliberate, predatory grace. She worked in silence, her movements economical and precise. The soft cotton ropes she used felt like a lover's caress as she bound his wrists to the belt at his side and his ankles together, rendering him completely immobile. He was a specimen laid out for her inspection. The blindfold came next, a swath of black silk that plunged him into a world of darkness, heightening his every other sense.

He heard the rustle of her clothing, the soft whisper of silk sliding to the floor, and his own breath hitched. Then came the scent—a familiar, intimate musk as she held the gusset of her worn panties directly over his nose.

"Breathe deep," she commanded, her voice a low murmur next to his ear. "Smell the power of your Mistress. This is the scent of your devotion, your purpose. Inhale it." He did, filling his lungs with her essence, his confined cock stirring uselessly against its metal bars.

She moved away, and he heard the mattress dip beside him. A moment later, a low, familiar buzz filled the silence. It was a sound he knew well, a sound that usually heralded his own participation. But not today. He lay there, a silent witness, as he heard the wet, rhythmic sounds of the vibrator working in and out of her.

"Mmm, that's it," she moaned, her voice thick with pleasure. "You know, I had a real man here this morning. A man with a cock big enough to please me, not a little pussy who lets his Mistress cage him up." The buzz continued, a steady, mocking rhythm. "He filled me so completely. Something you'll never, ever be able to do. He bent me over this very bed and took me from behind, his hands gripping my hips, his balls slapping against my ass. Can you imagine that? Of course you can't." Another moan, louder this time. "God, his hands were all over me, grabbing me, taking me. Not like you, all tied up and helpless, like a trussed turkey waiting for the oven." The words were darts, each one finding its mark in the darkness of his mind. He heard two or three more variations of the same theme, each one a detailed, cruel comparison between a phantom of virility and his own caged inadequacy.

Suddenly, her hand clamped onto his arm, her nails digging into his flesh. A sharp, guttural cry tore from her throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated release. The buzzing stopped, replaced by her heavy, panting breaths. They lay there in the quiet aftermath, the only sound their breathing and the frantic thrumming of his own heart.

After a long moment, the panties were removed from his face. He felt the cool, smooth head of the silicone toy press against his lips, moving slowly back and forth like a smear of lipstick.

"Clean it," she ordered.

He opened his mouth, and she slowly, deliberately pushed the slick, warm toy inside. She screwed his mouth, a deliberate, invasive act. He closed his lips around it, his tongue working diligently, tasting the distinct, salty-sweet proof of her pleasure. He licked it clean until she was satisfied, pulling it out with a soft pop.

Her hand moved down, her fingers gently cupping his balls. He flinched at the contact. "So full," she cooed, her voice deceptively soft. "Poor boy. You must be so desperate. All this potential, wasted." She rolled each testicle gently between her thumb and forefinger, enjoying the frustrated moan that escaped his lips. She leaned down and took one ball into her mouth, sucking gently, her tongue swirling around the sensitive skin. The wet heat of her mouth was a maddening torment, a pleasure so close yet so far from where he truly needed it. She repeated the action with the other, his moans of frustration growing louder.

Her touch shifted. She held his cage, the metal warm from his body, and gently blew through the bars. The stream of cool air was an exquisite, teasing agony that made his entire body tense.

Then she let go. He felt her move, the mattress shifting as she climbed up his body. He didn't need to see to know what was coming. He felt the heat first, a radiant warmth blooming above his face. Then came the weight, the soft, insistent pressure of her settling onto his mouth.

He began his worship with a slow, deep lick, his tongue tasting the lingering evidence of her earlier orgasm mixed with the fresh, sharp taste of her new arousal. He was blind, bound, and utterly at her mercy, and it made his service that much more fervent. He sealed his lips around her clit and sucked gently, his tongue flicking against the sensitive bud in a steady rhythm. He could feel her respond, her hips beginning to move in a slow, grinding circle against his face. He worked his tongue deeper, exploring every fold, every ridge, his entire being focused on one thing: her pleasure.

He felt her shift forward slightly, changing the angle, and he took the cue, focusing the flat of his tongue against her clit while his nose pressed against her. Her movements became more erratic, her breathing more ragged. He kept the humming steady, the pressure constant, letting her use his face for her own release. With a final, shuddering cry, she came, her body convulsing, her thighs pressing tightly against the sides of his head.

She collapsed beside him, a boneless, satisfied weight. He felt the covers being pulled over them both, a surprisingly tender gesture. In the darkness, he felt her hand come to rest on his caged cock, a proprietary, final claim.

"Only six more to go," she whispered, her voice already heavy with sleep.

He woke slowly, the stiffness in his limbs a dull, persistent ache. Cheryl was already up, standing beside the bed, looking down at him with an expression of idle curiosity. She untied his bonds, but left the blindfold on.

"Get up," she commanded, her voice sharp. "Follow me."

He stumbled out of the bed, his legs unsteady, and followed the sound of her footsteps into the adjoining bathroom. She guided him to stand in the middle of the cold, tiled floor.

"Kneel," she said.

He sank to his knees, the hard tile a shock to his system. He heard the rustle of her robe and then the sound of her lifting the toilet lid. He tensed, a new, more profound dread washing over him.

"Stay still," she warned, her voice a low, dangerous purr.

He heard the soft patter of liquid hitting water, and then, a moment later, the sound changed. He felt a sudden, shocking warmth on his chest. It was a hot, steady stream splashing directly onto his skin. The smell was sharp, acrid, undeniable. He was being pissed on.

He wanted to recoil, to crawl away, to vanish, but he was frozen in place, a statue of shame. The stream moved up his chest, to his neck, and then to his face. The hot liquid splashed against his blindfold, soaking the black silk, trickling down his cheeks, into his open, gasping mouth. It was the ultimate degradation, the final, crushing blow to his spirit. He was nothing. He was less than nothing. He was a toilet.

When she was finished, she shook herself off, sending a few last, contemptuous drops onto his head. "There," she said, her voice light, as if she'd just watered a plant. "Now you smell like what you truly are."

She left him there, kneeling on the floor, dripping and humiliated. He heard her leave the bathroom, and a moment later, she returned with his clothes, which she dropped in a heap beside him.

"Get dressed," she commanded. "And get out."

He fumbled for his clothes, his fingers clumsy and numb. He pulled on his shirt, his pants, the fabric sticking to his damp, stinking skin. He could smell her piss on himself, a foul, overpowering odor that filled his nostrils, a constant reminder of his place.

He finally managed to get dressed, his body trembling with shame and revulsion. He stood there, a pathetic, stinking mess, waiting for her final command.

"You may go," she said, her voice dismissive. "Don't you dare think about showering until you get home. I want you to remember this. I want you to smell me on you all the way home. I want you to sit in your own stink and think about what a pathetic, worthless little worm you are."

He turned and stumbled out of the room, his movements clumsy, his mind a blank, shattered void. He walked out of her house, into the bright, indifferent sunlight, the foul smell of her urine clinging to him like a shroud. He got into his car, the stench filling the small space, a suffocating cloud of his own humiliation. He drove home, his eyes fixed on the road, his body a vessel of shame, his spirit broken, the number six burning in his mind like a brand.