Bridge Game

My wife has women over to play bridge every week. They play in a large room; it has a card table, an entertainment center, a bar, and a wide low coffee table. On the coffee table is me. Naked. My hands are tied together beneath the table, and my legs are tied such that my feet face each other and my knees are spread widely. I'm about ten feet from the bridge game, so I can hear everything that is going on. I am prepared before every game by my wife, who ties me in this position and adds a little spice by tying a cord from my toes to my balls to make sure that I stay as still as possible during the two hours or so of the game -- if my legs start to straighten it gives my balls a nice jolt.

One would think that the other women in the bridge game would have been shocked the first time they came into the room and saw me. Evidently my wife had prepared them well for the scene, because they not only didn't seem to mind but were perfectly able to take advantage of the additional toys that had been set out. There are three: there is a wonderfully soft makeup brush by my right hip, a small riding crop at my left side, and, finally, placed on my hard cock as it points up toward my chin, a long white feather, balanced crosswise. I always hope there won't be a draft in the room as the women enter, because, if the feather, for any reason, leaves my cock without one of them removing it, there is a little punishment to endure, either at that moment, or later.

But the main reason for the feather is that each bridge hand has a dummy -- a person who sits out the hand while her partner plays out the hand. The dummy is allowed -- even encouraged -- to stroll over to where I am lying there as still as possible, pick up the feather, and use it -- well, anywhere on me, but since it's already at my cock and balls already, that tends to be the preferred location. I'm not hard for the entire time of the game, but it evidently is a fun task for the dummy to bring me to arousal during the few minutes the hand is being played. They will smile at the sight as they approach the table, sit on the low stool beside it, glance at my face, invariably giggle a little bit as they take up the feather and then ... for some reason, pause, before that first stroke. I can tell they feel my arousal build inside themselves; in a few minutes they are often squirming slightly themselves.

Between these moments, the feather is carefully placed back in its original position -- crossways, balanced on my cock. As I mentioned, it's really not to leave there, which really means... no twitching. This is the hardest -- er, most difficult -- part of the ordeal, but it's actually the part my wife enjoys the most -- glancing over, knowing from the most subtle cues and sounds, how I'm struggling to control my reactions, my thoughts, my body. If the feather does, for some reason, fall off, I glance at her and see the little smile that means... probably another ten minutes of restraint after the game is over, with assorted actual additions of ... well, all sorts of spiciness.

When my wife is the dummy, and it's her turn to see what she would like to do, she often skips the feather and uses the makeup brush. As it strokes slowly (my eyes can never leave her hand; it's like sexual hypnosis), she tells me of how the game is going (though I know; I can hear every word and bid). She is competitive, and when she is winning, she starts to describe promises -- how she will be so affectionate, and what the night will be like. When she is losing, though, it's a different story; she bypasses the brush and the feather, and with a feral gleam in her eye, picks up the little crop, eying my crotch. The others glance over and their eyes widen, but no-one says anything as she gives me a little, sharp, hit on my balls, or the top of my cock. She must moderate what she's doing -- a lot of screaming and loud moaning would make it difficult to play the game -- but she makes it clear that this interests her; with every little, supremely painful tap, she smiles as I try with all my might not to move.

At the end of the game, the ladies, one by one, are invited to give me a little goodbye tease. There seems to be some competition in this; my wife has to stop them after a little bit, because they seem to enjoy it so, and I can see them getting some ideas to take home to their husbands; I'm not sure whether the husbands get the benefit from the buildup that the women have been getting or not, because ... well, how would I ask? But by the end of the afternoon, if my wife has won, or has been able to work out her irritation at losing (work it out on me, that is), I usually get to cum. Eventually. Slowly. Loudly. Pleadingly. ... she goes through a lot of makeup brushes that way.