The Ex-Girlfriend · Part 1 (1/2)
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My boyfriend and I were pretty serious at this point. We’ve been seeing each other, fairly exclusively, for a couple years and things were going quite well. We’d had a couple temporary break-ups and separations, but we always found a way to come back together. I never wondered or asked what he did while we were apart, and, thankfully, he never asked me either.
I said all that, because it’s important to the story. My boyfriend, John, was certainly a catch, but a risky one. He had above-average looks and a nice physique after years as a construction worker. No, he wasn’t a paunchy, hairy guy from the road crews, he built houses and always had steady work and did okay for himself. The risk was his intellect and his sex drive. John was not the sharpest crayon in the box. He was just a simple guy with not a lot of common sense and even less book smarts. Add to that a pretty insatiable desire to chase women and get them into bed, or the floor, or a bathroom stall. In short, John was cute, dumb and horny. That didn’t sound too risky, but it was.
I certainly wasn’t the bachelorette of the century, myself. Looks-wise, I was the same caliber as John, fairly attractive with a solid body and good sense of style. I was a barista and a soccer coach, so I also had a sense of independence and a positive energy. As for my libido, it was a notch or two (or five) hotter than that of the average 27-year-old. Okay, I was horny, too, and I also loved to dive into various kinks to scratch my itches.
The trouble started when John’s ex-girlfriend saw us at the neighborhood pub and came over to say hello. He saw her first and blushed, so I knew they had something between them. She was a piece of work, and that was an understatement. She had thick dark hair past her shoulders, well-coiffed and shiny. She was very attractive in a sinister, dark sort of way, with a muscular build, but not chiseled. She wore biker-style clothes with leather touches everywhere, and high heeled black boots up to her knees.
As she spoke to us, John seemed to shrink into the booth, which I thought was weird. She was pleasant to me, and I liked her on first impression. I did notice a tattoo of a pair of handcuffs on the back of her hand where it met her wrist, a painful spot for a very clear and well-done piece of ink.
She left after a couple minutes of small talk and John seemed relieved. The look I gave him then was pure “tell me everything now and don’t leave anything out!”
It was no big deal, he told me. They were together briefly a long time ago, and he broke it off. You, John, king of the pussy-snatchers, broke it off with a hottie like her? He then said something I heard but did not forget. “It was cool being with a dom chick like her, but, man, I didn’t know what she was thinking a lot of the time, ya know?” He had a way of blurting things out that he should have thought about first. So his ex-girlfriend was a dom, and a fox. I liked her much more.
John sure didn’t want to talk any more about her that night, or afterwards. She stayed on my mind, however, because of John’s tiny comment about her being a dom. That meant, to me, that this woman was a dominatrix. One who seizes control over a submissive partner for consensual sex scenes, or other lifestyle experiences. In John’s case, I could not help but imagine him in the hands of a dom. No doubt she had her way with him, and he surely played along until it got too weird for him. John had absolutely no dominant tendencies that I could see, so he may have been a great “sub”, or submissive partner for her. This was also a good reason for a guy like him to run away from a prime piece of tail.
His silence slowly turned into a kind of distance between us not long afterward. I didn’t bring her up, but I did try to figure out their story indirectly. I asked around a little and went online to see if she came up in any local fetish sites or activities. I couldn’t find anything.
The distance I mentioned was due to the fact that ol’ John had contacted this woman after we all met that day and was talking to her via text and social media.
John had a birthday, like everyone else on the planet, and was unusually proud of it, because it hit on a popular holiday that was often celebrated with backyard barbecues and fireworks shows. That four digit month-date was John’s password for every fucking piece of electronics he had. His phone was jam-packed with messages to and from the ex. She missed him! She wanted to forget the past and move forward! She knew she could please him again if he gave her a chance! His responses were witty and insightful grunts, like “huh”, “oh yeah”, and “I guess, maybe”.
Turns out she and John had been together much more recently than he led on. Therefore, I decided to follow him when he finally did decide to meet her. I was interested in confronting him, but more in seeing her again. Would she be in biker-black or a yellow sundress? She would look good in either.
I got the chance after a few days. John had no clue how to be sneaky. His excuse of poker with the guys on a Sunday afternoon was comical. I followed him to a single-level house in a nice neighborhood. He seemed a little reluctant to go up to the door but went. John, your pussy is waiting in there, why are you acting so fucking dodgy and scared?
I waited for a while, expecting them to leave together and go somewhere but they didn’t. I supposed that the re-fuckening just could not wait until after dinner. I was just about to leave when she came bursting out the front door, alone. She looked like she was in a hurry and also looked like everything was going her way. She looked great in a tight sleeveless blouse, dark miniskirt, and black pumps. Was she sweating? She was slightly flushed and steamed. She had been working, or fucking, or both. She got in her car and sped off.
Oh, John. What has happened to you? I had several guesses. John could have been in her bed, spent out and wanting a cigarette and a bowl of ice cream, and she had neither, so she lit out for the grocery store. She could have lured John to the basement and chopped him up with a hatchet and had to run to the hardware store for bleach and trash bags. Hmmm.
I got out and headed up to the house, against my better judgement. I knocked on the front door like a girl scout with cookies in case the neighbors were watching, then quickly tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. I turned it.
I pushed the door open just enough to squeeze in and loudly say “hello, there”, for any neighbor listening. I was in!
The house was sparsely but elegantly furnished. I could see right away that this woman did well for herself but wasn’t made of money. I looked around some, in the front room and kitchen, and I kept hearing an occasional dull thump at the other end of the house. John? Who else could it be?
Despite my nerves, I slowly moved to the hallway and listened some more. Thump. Coming from the room at the end of the hallway. Thump. The door was closed. It sounded like something heavy hitting the back wall. Thump.
The bedroom door was also closed but unlocked. Jeez, lady, were you afraid of keys or something? I cracked the door open and could immediately tell that this was a large room like the primary bedroom. It was dimly lit and I could smell leather and a hint of sweat, man sweat.
I had to see, and I was not disappointed. I stepped into the room and my eyes adjusted quickly to see a man, spread-eagle on a big bed with black cuffs on his wrists and ankles. Black nylon straps stretched him to the four corner posts of the bed. He was naked but had some bondage gear at his crotch. I had no idea what it was, yet, but stared until he noticed it was me looking at him. His whole body jerked in the bondage. Thump, went a bedpost against the wall. Okay, so now I knew. I couldn’t breathe for a second.
I went to the bed, continuing to stare at what the ex-dom had done to my boyfriend. The mix of emotions was indescribable, but they all made my heart race. The first thing I did was to take a small pillow nearby and pack it between the wall and the thumping bedpost. How’s that for a good girlfriend?
John was tightly and securely bound to the stout bed and gagged with something in his mouth which was covered with leather. It was a ball or a mini-dildo, I knew. I’d held rubber balls and veiny, silicone dicks in my mouth before, also strapped tightly around my head and under my chin. I remember how they stifled even the loudest noise I could make, and how humiliating it was to suck a fake cock for an hour. This made me warm.
John struggled and whined while looking at me and away from me. He was coated with sweat even though the room was very cool. This meant he had been working hard against the bondage for a little while now. This much struggle told me something was happening with the man’s junk.
Based on my experiences, a man in bondage is different than a woman. A man will occasionally yank at his bonds and try to break free if nothing is happening to him. A man will go quiet and freeze in his bondage if he’s being fucked, stroked or blown, with just a pelvic thrust or two to try to come. But a man will struggle in bondage if he is being tickled, tormented or teased and can’t get free or make it stop. This will also make a gagged man grunt and growl like an animal, and John was doing both I went to inspect.
John was fairly well endowed. He had a nicely formed 8-inch cock with very acceptable girth. He was quick to get hard, probably because he had no mental barriers. Apparently, after the bitch-ex had John secure, she had placed a rubber cock sleeve around the base of his penis and balls, then slipped his balls through a slot. This caused his ballsack to stick out a bit and his shaft to stand more straight up from his prone body. It didn’t look too tight but I’m sure it was snug. A small egg-shaped vibrator, the size of a grape, was attached to Johnny-boy just below and on the underside of his penis head with an elastic band. His shiny purple head glistened with pre-cum.
This looked uncomfortable. Lastly, a kind of cage or grid-thing had been wrapped onto his shaft that looked flexible but not rigid. This, and the sleeve, would keep him semi-hard, I imaged, so that he would enjoy his torment for hours to come. Poor guy. She had done some great work. I got even warmer, and, yes, a little wet.
Right on cue, the little egg turned on, and a soft buzz filled the quiet room. John jumped and grunted though his gag. I jumped, too, and so did the bed, but without a thump. Yay me! Earlier, I didn’t notice the tiny wire coming out the end of the egg, but I did now and followed it to a little control box at the end of the bed. It was set on the highest setting, and the timer said 2 minutes on and 1 minute off. John was set to be tormented by that little buzzing bastard relentlessly, with time enough to get him rock hard, but not enough time to come. That was probably why he was pretty damn hard when I showed up. Ooh, that bitch had a mean streak. I still liked her. How long was she planning to be away, anyway?
I had two problems to deal with then. What to do with John, and what to do with the time I had until the bitch returned. I could get him untied and maybe dressed quickly, and we could escape to my car and freedom. What would that get me? An embarrassed boyfriend (ex-boyfriend) in my car. I could leave and let them have their fun when she got back, hoping John survived this very hot bondage scene. But he was MY man. What to do?
As John endured the egg vibe, moaning and squirming and trying to talk to me through the gag, I had to look away and figure this out. That was when I saw two things that made up my mind instantly. One was a small black box sitting on a shelf with a camera lens. A blinking green light on the back of the box was reflected against the shelf, so I knew it was on and recording. Next, on the dresser underneath was a woman’s taser, a bottle of lube, and some other items of mass-destruction including a riding crop, a feather, and a wired butt-plug. I was wet, tingly, pissed-off and horny as I made my decision. Um, yeah, most of my decisions are questionable at best.
I grabbed the lube. I faced the camera and threw up two middle fingers on each side of my head. She’d recognize me. She may even have been watching on her cell phone. I went to the bed and pulled the egg-vibe, mesh and rubber cock-holder off of my boyfriend and not in a delicate manner. He wailed through his gag at this. I squirted some lube on his skin-flute and got to work with both hands. I worked his shaft vigorously with one hand, while shielding (and squeezing) his balls with the other. John went fucking crazy. Head swinging, fingers waggling, feet flapping. I got him rock hard, wiped off some lube with the bedspread and took him in my mouth.
I could hear “fuck” and “shit” and “oh, god” from the gag. John was now frozen in ecstasy despite the bondage. Men getting aggressively fucked or sucked in bondage just do not struggle so much; I guess all their focus is on having an orgasm. As I furiously sucked and blew and stroked, I looked right at the fucking vid-cam every couple seconds. I knew I didn’t have much time.
Didn’t need it. John came hard, screaming into his gag with all the muscles in his body clenched. I worked him slowly after, making sure every ounce of cum had left his balls forever. Good luck playing with him now, bitch. All he would want is a nap. John needed a lot of time to recover.
I left! I fucking took off and left John-John on the bed, bound and gagged and covered in cum, lube, spit, tears and sweat. He was too worn out to protest. He’d be fine. As I left the house I wondered if I’d ever get to see the video of me ra
The Ex-Girlfriend · Part 1 (1/2)
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