If you support me through Patreon or Ko-Fi, you can enter in the “Scene Raffle” to have me engage in a scene of your choice, complete with a writeup and photos! This post is an example of what that might look like. Needless to say, this post is gonna get really dirty.
“Fuck me, I’m trapped.”
That’s how a friend on Discord told me to start this post. A lot of people are telling me to do shit today. I have nobody but myself to blame. I’m a typical masochist: writing checks with my mouth that my body can’t cash. But that’s part of the fun isn’t it? Putting yourself in situations you can’t really get out of, being forced to experience new things and push your limits. I mean, I’ve got safewords, of course; I’m a stickler for safe play so that’s a given. But since my boyfriend lives in Maryland, we have to put a few systems in place to make sure I do exactly what I’m told.
I suggested to my boyfriend that I remain in my neoprene getup for as long as he desired. I laid out my gear for his approval; the thought that it’s currently the dead of Summer never really crossed my mind. Once geared up, I locked on my collar so that the hood and wetsuit couldn’t be removed, and gave the key to my roommate, who would only return it if I showed him a message from my boyfriend. The time I was allowed to cum was assigned using a random number generator, calling on value ranges that only my boyfriend knew. This meant that I could finish, but then be stuck – sweaty, exhausted, and totally over it – for hours.
We got more creative as the night passed. I finished a forced workout of 50 crunches because my boyfriend wanted to really hear my gas mask work. I could barely catch my breath through the filter. When I headed to dinner with the other roommates, all I was allowed to remove was my mask and my hood. A few sloppy joes and a half-hour of awkward staring and timid conversation later, and I returned to a hood and mask cold and slick with sweat.
Eventually I was allowed to finish and retrieve the key, but on one condition: I had to fill a shot glass. Of course I couldn’t (even though I filled a decent amount). Out of sheer desperation, I offered to drink it all down with rum, the only bargaining chip I had left. But I took the shot before my boyfriend clarified that all I’d get out of it was “protein.”
Needless to say, an ounce of Black Magic rum – my heretofore drink of choice – made it curdle. Fair is fair; he let me peel out of my gear after I subjected myself to that.
P.S. Throughout the night, I kept referring to myself as a “seahorse” because I found it extremely amusing. A close dragon friend of mine reminded me to mention that. He found it amusing.