Fuckstool, Part 2

Fuckstool, Part 2

I wrote A Beginning To A Story… a little over 4 1/2 years ago.

Wow! Time flies.

I never followed up on it. So many things to do, to experience, to try. In the real world and in my writings. It just got lost in the shuffle.

A few months ago, someone asked if I had or would write a continuation. I thought it would be fun, so added it to my schedule.

I had NO IDEA what was going to come next.

Until I made a new friend who shared a little story with me. This is a remix/collaboration of my thoughts and his.

Is it the end? Nope. I’ve actually written more, and will share it soon.

I hope you enjoy.

As your words spill from your lips perhaps a little too quickly, a small bit too breathlessly in confession, you feel exposed.

Can anyone hear you?

You lower your voice.

“What was that? I can’t hear you. You’ll have to start all over again. Speak more slowly, and please, raise your voice a bit. I do want to hear all of this, you know.”

My words send a jolt to your core, sending your cock jumping and spurting again. You bite off a moan, and begin again.

More measured. Speaking clearly and in a normal tone.

It seems like every person walking by stares a bit too long. Can they know? They must. It feels like your perversions must be written on your flesh for all to see.

You answer my questions and requests for detail. You feel your humiliation and excitement all over again.

When you’re done, and I’m quiet for a moment, You think for sure I’m going to ask you to repeat yourself, however, I simply say, “Thank you very much. My night is much improved. Don’t spend everything you have while you’re out this evening. I have plans for when you get home.”

“Enjoy your game. Your team is winning.”

I laugh and hang up on you.

You stare a moment at your phone, then rush inside to see the last few plays, and celebrate your team’s victory with raucous celebration and another drink.

The guys cheering for the other team are calling foul and suggesting a migration down the street and a few rounds to soothe their loss, but your mind and body are aching with anticipation and a desperate need to put yourself into my hands and submit to what I have planned.

As you start to make your excuses, you can see H laughing. Damn him. He probably knows. Your cheeks heat.

Sure enough, as you say goodbye, he pulls a wrapped box about the size of a scotch bottle out of his bag, and says, “For your Queen,” and laughs, refusing to say anything more.

Your cock stiffens even more and leaks.

H laughs even harder watching you, and you turn away to head out before you burst with humiliation.

You hoped to calm down on the way home, but you just keep playing everything over in your mind, and your entire body is burning with shame and desire by the time your key turns in the lock.

Everything seems dark and quiet, so you head to our room. Maybe I’ve forgotten or fell asleep in the hour and a half it took you to get home. Your breathing comes bit more easily.

Until you see the light under the closed door still shining.

Maybe I fell asleep with the light on. Maybe you shouldn’t have had that last beer.

You open the door, and the first thing that you see is my smile. Full of love and wickedness.

And my body. Lush and bare. Smooth flesh just begging to be caressed and tasted.

“Strip.”

You’re shocked from your reverie, starting to remove your clothing even before you fully register what I said. As you get naked, you realize what you’d missed.

A chair in the room, right in front of me, with a harness in place, ready to hold…

You shudder as memories of the fuckstool flood you.

“I believe that’s for me?” I say, holding out my hand for the package you carry.

You hand it over, and I say, “Don’t stop what you’re doing. You’ll see what this is soon enough.”

As you finish removing all of your clothing, you glance up in time to see me reveal my gift.

It takes a moment before your mind can fully register what you’re seeing. It’s a dildo, but more, it’s a shape and size you know.

“Damnit, H,” you think. “Fucker.”

H, indeed.

In one hand, I’m holding a perfect replica of H’s massive cock comeplete with a heavy ball sack, while I pick up another, slightly smaller (but by no means small) familiar dildo from the bed beside me.

“Choose one.”

“One for what?” you think. You know I won’t answer, so you don’t bother asking. The stool. Oh, damn. You’re fucked.

“Damnit, H.”

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