Lothario tries to seduce coworker, but the tables turn. [MF] [Bondage] [Shame] [Femdom] erotic short stories

I care about only one of the three guests I’ve invited into my apartment tonight. The other two guests are part of a performance I am putting on for Makenna. If I invited her over alone, she would have understood why, but by inviting two of our other coworkers along my real motive is plausibly deniable. I need to create uncertainty. I need her imagination active.

My real home is a house a few blocks over. I rent this apartment on the side to entertain women. When I furnished it, I bought most things second-hand so I could save my budget for what counts: the couch and the bed. Sometimes the mood is fragile and can’t survive the walk from the living room to the bedroom, so I purchased a deep black leather couch that’s easy to clean and comfortable to fuck on.

I pace around the room while my guests sit on the couch. Makenna sits at the far end, almost hiding. She wears a denim button-down shirt unbuttoned one button below modest over a chemise. We flirted on work IM all week after meeting at the new hire training, but she’s been reserved all night. The only time she spoke was to apologize for standing in my way when I came out of the bathroom. Hope remains, though. She hasn’t pulled out her phone even once.

For the first hour I asked questions to drive conversation, and told stories. Then I intentionally became quiet. I need Mark from compliance and Raymond from customer service to leave, so Makenna and I can talk alone. I’m trying to bore them out.

It may be working. Mark is content to recline on the couch and play with the light remote, cycling the living room lamps through orange, green, and red lighting, but Raymond is pulling out his cell phone and checking the time. If Raymond leaves, Mark will too, because Raymond is his ride. My only fear is that Raymond will offer Makenna a ride home, and I will be forced to improvise a persuasive case for her to stay at my place in front of Raymond and Mark.

Raymond stands and pats his pockets, checking for his keys and wallet. Mark recognizes the cue and jumps up behind him, almost tripping over the coffee table in the process, the clumsy fuck. When they walk to the door, Makenna straggles behind them. I position myself in front of her, just in case any ride offers are extended.

They are almost out the door when Mark bends over to velcro his shoes. As he bends, his ass juts out and knocks the jar of marbles I keep on the entry table from its place. I kneel and catch it.

“Good catch,” Raymond says. “What is that for? Just decorative?”

I doubt I would tell Raymond even if Makenna weren’t present. The answer is inconvenient, and I enter a stupor trying to invent a lie to tell. Every time a I make a woman come who didn’t make me come, I put a marble in the jar. Filling the jar with wins is a long-term project of mine. Usually I can lie faster but for some reason I’m struggling now. “Just decorative.”

He nods. “Hmm. Well, thanks for having us over. See you on Monday!”

I am lucky today. Neither Raymond nor Mark even acknowledged Makenna on their way out. She and I are left alone in my entryway and the lights are tuned to a dim red.

I put my hands on Makenna’s shoulders and look her in the eye. It’s a serious gesture but I pull it off as casual and playful. She is a full head shorter than me. I ask, “Do you want to smoke weed?”

Her face breaks into a wide grin. “Wow. I’m so excited to hear you say that. I didn’t know you smoked.” Now that we’re alone she seems more comfortable, which I didn’t expect.

I thought I’d get to introduce her to weed. I love smoking women out and fucking them while they’re high for the first time. A special bond forms between the first-time smoker and their teacher, especially if that teacher fingers their asshole. But so Makenna’s smoked before. That’s ok. There’s more to my smoking angle; I still have something to introduce her to. “You’re about to hit the smoothest hit of your life,” I tell her. From my room I fetch my desktop vaporizer, and from the freezer I fetch some ice cubes. When it’s plugged in and assembled, I load the ice cubes into a compartment along the tube. “It’s convection.”

“This is serious.”

I point at the components. “Ice chamber. Dehumidifier. Mouthpiece. You won’t believe the hits.”

“I want to try! You got flower?”

“I’ll grind some.” I fetch the textbook I hollowed out to store my grinder and start preparing a bowl.

Makenna allows herself to fall backward over the armrest onto my couch. “What’s the jar really for?”

I’ve never seen her this relaxed in company. “Sorry?”

“You were weird about the jar. I know it’s not just decorative.”

“I thought you were shy.”

“I’m not good in groups, and anyway I know you’re into me.”

I stop grinding the weed and look up at her. “You what?”

“I got a nose for it.”

“A nose for it.”

“Am I wrong?”

“…no. You’re not wrong.”

She sits up. “Is the bowl ready?”

We alternate taking hits and leaning over my balcony railing to appreciate the city skyline. I chose this unit for its balcony view, which looks straight across the lake at the mountains, the cathedral, and on the west edge, the skyscrapers. The 180 degree view of all the sex I would have during the lease term sold me. When I try to count the hits I’ve taken so far, I fail. I’m so high that I impress myself when I arrive at the end of sentences. Makenna doesn’t seem phased. Our arms rub against one another as we lean side by side on the railing.

I reach my arm around her and pull her in closer, but she removes my arm.

“My mistake,” I say. “I misread.”

“It’s ok. I just haven’t made up my mind.”

“About what?” I ask, knowing about what.

“About doing this.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I—” she starts, then turns away from me. Her posture becomes rigid, uncomfortable, the way I am used to seeing her at work, the way she was earlier tonight. “I want to, but…I don’t know how to have sex.”

“Oh.”

“I mean, I know how it works. Like, I went to high school health class. I’ve watched porn. I just haven’t _done_ it. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

I couldn’t introduce her to weed, but this is so much better. I’ve given the question of where to start a lot of thought. I have a dependable strategy to deploy here. “Do you want to play a strip game?”

“Like poker?”

“It could be anything.” It could be anything, but it’s bridge. I use bridge in these scenarios because most people can’t play it well, and it’s sufficiently difficult to count the cards while high that I can alter the deck. Every fourth card from the top of the deck is a spade, which I deal to myself, and there are only seven spades—I replaced the other spades with diamonds from a second deck. “I can’t find my poker chips. How about we bet on bridge?”

“Yes! I play bridge all the time online.”

That’s bad. “What stakes are you thinking?”

“I thought it was just loser strips?”

“We could add something extra, for if you beat your target.”

“It depends on what kind of extra.”

“Handcuffs.”

“Go on…”

“One pair of cuffs per point above or below target, at the end.”

A silence follows, and the ambient sounds become louder. I am so high. The rhythmic, somnolent hum of the heater surrounds me on all sides.

“I’m down on one condition,” Makenna says. “You have to take two more hits. And I mean milky white full-chamber hits.”

The game begins as planned. I struggle to focus long enough to count at first, but I do manage to count. I bet on spades as a trump suit, and win the bid betting on a two-point victory. I sweep the first four points and study her body through her clothes without subtlety. Moments like these are what I do it for. I’m in control, and I’m about to restrain a beautiful women by her hands and feet, naked, and play with her for the rest of the night.

A cold breeze blows in from the open balcony door. It bites, but I ignore it. Moods are fragile, and I can’t jeopardize destabilizing this one in its critical period. There will be plenty of time once I tie Makenna up.

As she takes her first point, she smirks at me. I let her have one more, so she doesn’t suspect the game is rigged. When she takes the third I lean in. I might need to pay more attention.

“And that’s a fourth for me,” she says. “Tie game.”

“I caution your optimism.”

“Yeah whatever. It’s your turn.”

I fail to win any hands other than those my spades guaranteed. I arrive at counting with six points to Makenna’s eight, a two point loss. I am betting there’s a 30% chance she is too shy to insist. She’s never even tried to have sex before. It’s probably a relief to her that she didn’t lose, and now the whole issue can pass.

Makenna makes a give-it-here hand motion. “You owe me everything you’re wearing.”

This has never happened before. I always win at bridge. Through a surreal fog, I hand over my shirt and unzip my slacks. As I hand my clothing to her, she throws it down the hall. I forfeit my shirt, slacks, and socks, and hesitate when I reach at my boxers.

She snaps her fingers at me. “Also those. Hurry up.”

I grip the waistband of my boxers, but when I continue to hesitate Makenna intervenes and yanks them down herself. I step out of them for her and she throws them, too, down the hall. I am self-conscious of her appraising me.

“Where are they, the cuffs?”

She finds them in the dresser drawer after I point to it.

I allow her to cuff my wrists together behind my back. The cold breeze blows in again and makes me shiver, which makes me regret not shutting the balcony door earlier. The cold bites harder than when I was wearing clothes.

Makenna puts a hand on my chest and whispers into my ear, “kneel for me.”

I have no counter argument. I’d be just as pushy if I won, and I’m preoccupied replaying the game in head, trying to determine what other moves I could have made. When she cuffs my ankles together, she weaves the chain through my wrist cuffs, so I am trapped in the kneeling position. The cuffs click shut, and I realize Makenna no longer needs my compliance. My heartrate shoots up. The other side is so familiar—I’ve restrained 14 different women in this apartment—that I assumed I knew what this side felt like too. I didn’t know anything. Fear and arousal blend together. I’ve only known Makenna for week, most of that through instant chat, and now I am at her mercy. Even my arousal is exposed to her.

She puts a cold hand on my the outside of my thigh, then the inside, my abs, and shoulders. It’s explorative, the way she touches me. There is nothing I can do and nothing for me to do—she studies my body like a new possession. I wanted to do this to her. I wanted to cuff _her_ hands behind her back, cuff _her_ ankles together, and lay her across my lap and play with _her_. My frustration, like with my fear, catalyzes arousal, and the arousal itself is frustrating and degrading. I am ashamed that I am in this low position, that I am exposed to this stranger, and that it’s turning me on. This shame, also, transmutes into arousal. Somehow in these restraints, frustrated desire is the final form of all thought.

At her soft brush of my cock—just her fingernails—a warm sensation shoots into me from her touch, followed by an involuntary muscle contraction. My sharp inhale reveals the effect she has on me.

“Wow. You like that, huh?” she asks, with curiosity but also detachment, as if what excites me is an academic problem.

I pray that the novelty of sex pushes her forward, that she lacks the restraint not to take me to the end, but my prayers go unanswered. She retakes her seat in front of me. The disappointment I feel when she stops touching me almost drives me to beg. For ten seconds she looks me over, and while I ignore it at first, it begins to embarrass me. I want to cover myself—I don’t want her to see my cock harden for her. I don’t want her know how much power she has over me.

Something on the floor catches her attention. On top of the pile of cards we tossed aside, two kings of diamonds landed next to each other, face-up. When she finds more duplicates in the cards, they confirm her suspicion: I stacked the deck. Her attention returns to me, and I am more embarrassed than before. More of me is exposed to her now than has ever been exposed to anyone.

“So you cheated.”

“…”

“You cheated didn’t you?”

“I…”

Makenna unbuttons her shirt and shrugs it off, revealing the low cut of her chemise. “You were that desperate to see me take this off?” she asks, pinching her dress. To taunt me, she crawls forward on her knees, showing me that she wears no bra underneath. If my hands were free I could reach in and feel her chest, pinch her nipples, but I can’t pull myself out of the cuffs even with my full strength. She says, “You’ll regret lying to me, but it’s sort of hot that you want me that much.”

From behind me, she wraps her hand around, but does not grip my cock. It’s maddening. She kisses my neck slowly, and her breath on my skin warms me up. When she reaches my ear, she whispers, “I’m taking it off.” She pulls her dress over her head and slides it down the arm she’s taunting my cock with, so that I see it. Primal craving for her colonizes my brain, sparing no feelings, sensations, or thoughts except desperation—her naked skin radiating heat on my back, her hard nipples brushing against my skin, her tongue licking the back of my neck, they are all I experience. “I bet you’d like to see. I don’t think I’ll show you, though.”

Finally, I relent. “Please, Makenna.”

“I don’t think you’re in a good negotiating position. But I’m curious about how you work, so here’s what I’ll do.” She ties her dress around my eyes, which allows some light through, enough to see the curves of her body in front of me, but it obscures all detail. “I don’t want you watching me.”

Makenna plays, is what she does. I can never tell when she will next touch me because she pulls away for random amounts of time—three seconds, ten seconds, one second. Stroking my cock once, a licking it, sucking on it for a few seconds, flicking it with her finger, dragging fabric over it—she tries everything, just to see how it affects me. Based on my moans and muscle contractions she refines her routine to an arrhythmic cycle. My suffering entertains her. She won’t let it end. I try to escape her—as well as my restraints allow—but I don’t stand a chance in my awkward position. She holds me in place by my hips without apparent effort. Cycling between her methods, she sensitizes me until the slightest touch causes me to clench. The sensitivity obscures the difference between pain and pleasure at the sensory level. I hear myself moaning. The sounds of unwilling pleasure escape on their own.

I panic when she stops. Her games had hurt, and I had wanted to escape, but somehow losing her attention is still worse than having it.

“Hey, what was in the jar?”

The jar is what’s on her mind right now? “What?”

“If you want more, tell me what’s in the jar. Otherwise I’m getting dressed and leaving right now.”

“Well, it’s…”

“No, no brainstorming. I’m getting dressed now.”

“Wait!” I say, before even thinking. I confess the jar’s purpose.

“Holy shit. I’m glad I didn’t lose to you,” she says, as she closes her hand tight around my cock. “That’s so shallow and gross.” She puts her whole body into stroking me, and when I moan for her my embarrassment is total. She doesn’t even like me. I can tell from her tone that her disgust is real, that I’ll never see her naked, that I’ll remember this depth of shame every time she smirks at me at work. And yet, knowing that, I am still so helpless against her that she is driving me into the far throes of pleasure, a third state as different from sleep and wakefulness as they are from each other.

Through labored breath I say, “Oh, god, Makenna. Yes.”

“come.”

As soon as Makenna tells me to, I come. My vision skips frames. I drench myself and her hand in my come, and it lubricates her strokes. After coming I am so sensitive that even a light touch burns like hot metal. Her continued stimulation hurts as much as my orgasm is pleasant, both sensations shooting through every inch of me. I writhe to get away, but she only laughs to herself and holds me where I am. It’s never happened like this before, doesn’t make sense, but I continue to come for her. I don’t know if I’m having another orgasm or if the first refuses to end. Black spots expand in my vision when she digs her tongue into my ear.

“You’d better just get used to this,” she instructs, and handles me faster, “because I don’t feel like stopping.”

I cross a threshold where all sensation, even pain, is intense pleasure. With what little sight I have I try to find her chest through my blindfold and lick her breast. No resistance remains. I am desperate to lick her. Makenna is right to look down on me, and I am so grateful to her for this pleasure. I want to prove how grateful I am. Something that feels like an electric shock erupts from my cock, and I splatter come on her Makenna naked torso. The rest of my vision fades.

When I wake up on the living room floor, I am still in cuffs but they are unclasped. Dried come coats my skin. I appear to be alone in the apartment. By the door I find a note from Makenna. It reads “I took a marble. See you at work on Monday! :)”

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