Two Red Wash Cloths

There are two red washcloths on the table. My eyes are drawn to them the moment I walk in the door. My red satin skirt swirls around my ankles, and my hands come to rest over my hips on the matching red satin tunic. My pulse quickens as I meet his baby-blue eyes and ask:

“Tonight?”

“Yes,” he blurts out, his eagerness almost child-like.

My eyes rake over him, the polo shirt and jeans giving him a clean cut façade.

I smile. “Well then, what are you waiting for?”

A bubble of laughter escapes from my lips. My laughter follows him as he jumps up and bounds up the stairs. I follow at a more sedate pace, not because I was any less eager, just to make him wait.

I also remember the washcloths, which in his excitement, he has forgotten. My slowness has given him time to get ready, and ready he is. He stands naked in the middle of the pale hardwood floor. His erection is already straining against gravity. He waits, rocking back and forth slightly on the balls of his feet, with the faintest sign of impatience.

I enter the room, taking a moment to drop the washcloths on the edge of the bed, near at hand. I go into the small closet to retrieve what he waits so anxiously for. It is a large roll of plastic wrap, the type they use to wrap up pallets of produce.

“Hold still,” I direct, as I come out of the closet.

He obeys without so much as a quiver.

I slowly kneel by his feet. Reaching beside me I take one red washcloth. It was already folded in quarters. I fold it again, then I tuck it between the bones of his ankles. He quickly edges his feet together to hold the padding. I repeat this process with the other red washcloth, placing it between his knees.

I scoot the roll of plastic towards me, finding the edge and pulling it out. I make sure to unravel enough to go around his ankles, so that it can catch on itself. Once I have it unraveled, I wrap it around his calves. I set the roll back on the floor, so I can stand back up.

Once I am standing, I lean over with one hand on each side of the roll. I slowly start to circle his standing body. I go around his calves several times until I achieve the tension I want — tight enough to almost completely inhibit movement, but not tight enough to stretch or weaken the wrap. I continue to circle the wrap up his thighs.

At his erection I take a bit more care, for I want it left outside of the wrap. Here I circle once directly below his testicles, then again from just above his erection. I make a third pass just above his erection. I carefully angle this pass downward to catch the ones below. Then I have him hold his arms against his sides. I repeat the wrapping, catching his arms. I continue up over his chest, keeping up the moderate tension on the roll.

When I reach his shoulders I angle several passes to make the rounds tighter — so that they will effectively surround his head, not covering his mouth quite yet. I take one last look into his sky-blue eyes. Desire has flushed his face to a pale rose, and the blue stands out in startling contrast.

“Close your eyes,” I whisper.

Once they flutter closed, I complete the wrapping around his head. I have to work quickly because once I wrap his face he cannot breathe. I spin around him, blood red skirt twirling. Twice around him I go, then I stop to carefully puncture the wrap at his mouth with my ‘fuck-me’ red nails.

I eye his tightly wrapped body with silent satisfaction. Sweat is already forming steamy pockets under the wrap. I turn him so his back is to the bed and gently push. He crashes to the bed landing on the beach-towel he had spread in eager anticipation. Fortunately the bed is a strong one, and used to this kind of abuse. I let him lie there for a moment as I slip out of my five-inch heels, leaving my nylons on.

I climb on the bed, letting the slippery satin caress his slick plastic coating. His breathing becomes more erratic as I straddle his chest, letting my fingers trail gently over his erect member. I tease it playfully by taking my blond hair and feathering the ends over the tip. Laughing as he struggles in his plastic cocoon, I lean back, nearly letting my thighs slide down to his neck. I select several black satin ties from the bedside table, as well as a tube of hand lotion. The hand lotion I let rest on his belly.

I take one satiny tie and caress his erection with the end of the tie. He whimpers helplessly, flexing in his absolute bondage. I fold the tie in half, marking the point with my finger and center this below his treasured sacs. I bring the ends around to the front and tie the first knot, a simple slipknot that I pull cruelly tight around his testicles. I then crisscross the ribbon back and forth up the shaft of his erection, tying another slipknot just below the ridge of the head of his penis. I double this knot, pulling it as tight as I dare, until the flesh bulging between the tie is purple with the torture.

Now he is prepared for me to get back to business. I apply a generous layer of lotion to both hands, slicking off extra droplets on his shrink-wrapped form. I trail my lotion dripping fingers slowly up his erection, circling the tip with one long red nail. My other hand grasps the bottom of the shaft above his testicles. The first slips down to surround the upper half of his shaft. I slowly rotate my hands in opposite directions; I continue this action, slowly increasing the pressure and the rhythm. His anguished cries soon echo off of the lamp-lit walls. When he starts to struggle upward, arching towards his release, I slow down. Going from a frantic pace to a barely there touch. He goes from desperate cries to moans of total desperation, a supplicant begging for fulfillment.

The time for true torture is upon me. I will enjoy this! I slow down almost to a complete stop, toying cruelly with his utterly helpless body. I tell him how wonderful it will be when I choose to give him what he wants, but now I want him to beg before I do it. His desperate pleas fill my ears; his begging is almost as delightful as his pain.

I soon realize that I can not keep him in the wrap much longer. The steamy pockets have become patches of wetness that slowly seep through onto the beach-towel below him.

I return my hand to his straining erection. His body arches immediately, the craving for my touch much worse after its absence. His cries are impatient, partially because he knows this time there will be an end. This, however, does not mean that my teasing is at an end.

My fingers release his erection, only to push it into my mouth. My tongue teases flesh through the bonds, as the head slips down my throat. I build a delicate cycle with both lips and hands, as he builds towards climax I release him from my mouth and slip to the side.

His ejaculation arcs onto his plastic wrapped form as I continue to gently massage his tender sacs with my hands — milking the last of the creamy fluid from him. His heaving breath is all that can be heard as I slip out of the room to wash my hands. When I return, I have a pair of shears in my hand, with which I carefully slice off his cocoon.

As soon as he is free he darts for the shower. I again follow slowly, this time deciding what I will want in return.