I often need to smash my boy’s face a bit before bed to calm him down and get him ready for another come-less night tied at the foot of my bed. 10 to 15 of these and he’s usually good to go.
Friday afternoon in city hall park with my foot slave on his 16th day of lock down, exacerbated greatly, I’m sure, by a recent nightly regimen of lavish foot worship, followed by a blissful orgasm for me, before I order him back to my feet for the night, nipple clamps in place for a time to help with the raging hunger; his, that is:). Dirty and/or smelly feet help him to manage as well, just saying’. It’s the age-old D/s principle of punishment for needs.
My boy hasn’t come since April 26—he disappointed me greatly on that particularly Saturday and caused a big problem for me at a dinner party.
I’ve been tormenting him ever since. Finally, last night I allowed him some measure of relief, so I removed his device and smashed his swollen testicles thusly for 8 straight minutes, which left about a teaspoon of splooge on the floor for him to consume before lockdown again. He thanked me profusely of course.
Hanging with my bull lover (my tattoo artist) and my slave husband chastity footcuck. Life’s good right now.
While I’ve had 24 orgasms this month at your expense, and you’ve had none, you’re belt’s staying on for another month as I’m extremely disappointed in your maid service last night at Jane’s; you embarrassed Me. I will now beat your buttocks until it blisters and you’re openly crying.