Date night

Every date night ends the same way. A lovely evening, fancy clothes, some drinks and fun. And then a hasty return home before it gets too late. Placid excuses to friends about early work the next day, strenuous obligations.

In reality, the fun only begins when we lock our door behind us and I say those three magic words:

"Get into position."

You scurry like an eager puppy to strip and lay facedown on the couch. In an instant, your favorite pillow is situated under your head and you're ready to go. I take my time - hanging my jacket, getting some water - before I sit down with you. You lift your legs so I can slip under your lap, ass up and begging. Your dick is already hard - I feel its pointed tip poking my thigh as you lift your hips to beckon me - but I pay it no mind. Your thighs widen just enough that I can reach through and tug your wrinkled coinpurse through and leave your leaky rod behind. You relax your body, balls now held captive behind you and cock trapped (and forgotten) between our bodies.

You've been waiting for this, haven't you? You've been thinking about it since the moment we left the house. Every boring round of smalltalk was a tortuous delay. Every fresh drink I poured myself was more time you were forced to wait for this moment.

I keep your ball rope on the side table, right there in the open. It's convenient to have it handy since you need this particular dose of medicine so often. I wonder if anyone of our friends has ever recognized what it is when they've come to visit. I slip it around your balls, a simple loop to hold them up and tight, and you audibly moan from the anticipation.

I can't help but laugh a bit. The paradoxical arousal in anticipation of pain is one of my favorite things about playing with you. I fiddle with your sack a bit before I begin, tugging it this way and that to admire its sheen.

The first slap is gentle, just a little one to make your jump. You grip the pillow under your face. Another soft one and you wriggle a bit, impatient to get to the real thing.

Always so impatient. You need to be taught a lesson for that.

I pick up a steady rhythm, softly at first, but steady as a drum. Whack, whack, whack, whack, whack... You start to clench your buttocks, not from the intensity but from the length of onslaught. Each slap builds on the last, steadily feeding a fire in your sack and deep in the pit of your stomach.

I increase the strength of my slaps, not a lot, just barely enough for you to notice. You wriggle more now, hips tensing in time with my slaps. I ramp up more and am rewarded by the first real grunts, small noises of discomfort that you muffle into the pillow. You shift in earnest now, as if subconsciously trying to avoid the impacts.

It must be subconsciously, right? Because this is what you wanted. This is what you'd been waiting for all evening. This is what you'd raced home to receive.

No more games. I continue ramping up, now holding your balls tight to restrain them as you wiggle actively to try to escape. Hips jerk right, left, up, left again, down, right again. You're only hurting yourself with your resistance - each movement yanks your balls against the grip of my steady hand. No matter what you do, I hold your balls still, vulnerable to my torment. The rhythm continues unabated and steadily intensifies. Only I say when it ends.

Whack. Your scream is muffled by padded fabric. Your hips jerk so hard to the side that your nuts are pulled to the bottom of your sack by the ball rope. Whack. A sobbing scream this time. Ironically, your hips jolt upward as if an offering for mercy. WHACK. A higher-pitched shriek this time while your hips buck forward and attempt to suck your balls in with them (of course, it doesn't work). WHACK. The pleas begin, oh god, oh pl - WHACK. More sobbing, and you attempt to roll away, but I hold you captive by your balls. WHACK. Another shriek with your voice raised an octave. WHACK. WHACK. WHACK.

How long will it continue? Until your balls are numb? Until they turn black and blue like two plums? Until I'm bored?

If we're waiting for that last one (and spoiler: we are), you have a long way to go. Your pathetic cries and useless wiggling could keep me entertained for hours. I can feel myself getting wet from it already. I'll have you eat me out to finish the job later, but not for awhile. We have plenty of time for that after I make your balls so sore that you walk bow-legged for the rest of the weekend.

I hope you're enjoying date night :)