BDSM Punishment: The Blowjob I Owed Him

Saturday dawned differently.

After nearly an entire week spent under his rules inside the apartment, I noticed the change from the very first minute. He let me wear a black silk nightshirt, tied my hands in front of me with a rope softer than usual, and fastened one of my ankles to the radiator with enough slack for me to move around the whole bedroom without yanking at it like a nervous bitch.

There was no gag. No handcuffs either. Just the rope, his voice, and that way he looked at me that was enough to remind me who was in charge.

He also left the tablet, the e-reader, and my phone within reach. I never touched the phone. Just looking at my free fingers reminded me of what it felt like to have them taped together, and I preferred not to tempt fate.

I spent the morning alone, keeping myself occupied, still submissive but more comfortable. That mixture turned me on more than I wanted to admit. It wasn't just the confinement; it was knowing that every tiny improvement depended on my behavior, on his judgment, on the way he chose to administer my reward or punishment.

Midmorning, he came in with a cold drink and held it to my lips so I could drink without spilling on myself. That simple gesture sent a stronger shiver through me than any harsh command. In our dynamic, care was another form of control, and when he stroked my chin before leaving, I felt a wet heat between my legs.

Later, he allowed me to wash. First he untied my ankle, then my wrists once we were in the bathroom, only for the time absolutely necessary to undress and wash myself. As soon as I finished, he tied me up again with dry, firm rope, without tightening it too much. He liked seeing me functional and restricted at the same time.

When we returned to the bedroom, I found the bed prepared with a digital game already open, two clamps, and two gags resting beside the pillow. One was small, the kind I could endure for hours. The other was large, black, obscene, made to force my mouth open until my jaw was tense.

I looked at him without asking. I knew how to keep quiet when it was appropriate.

He sat on the edge of the bed and gestured for me to come closer. I settled with my back against the wall and my legs bent, watching the board. We began to play.

The rules became clear soon enough. The first time he captured one of my pieces, he picked up a clamp and placed it in my tied hands. I didn't need to hear a command to understand. I pulled the silk of my shirt aside and pinched one of my nipples.

It hurt. Just enough. The sharp little sting drew a deeper breath from me, and the brush of fabric over the trapped nipple finished turning me on. When I made my move and captured one of his pieces, he held out his hand for me to give him the clamp. As soon as I removed it, the nipple regained its circulation with a much more intense lash of pain. I couldn't stop myself from moaning.

He barely smiled. Enough for me to know he was enjoying himself.

We continued like that for quite a while. The clamps went back and forth, and each time they bit into my flesh again, I felt my nipples growing harder, more sensitive, more alive. The conversation began slowly, casually, and that normality mixed with my submission proved dangerously exciting. We looked like any ordinary couple spending the morning together, except that I was tied up, barefoot, and watching his every gesture as though my life depended on it.

The gags remained there, motionless, provoking me with their mere presence. Every time I glanced at the large one, I felt an involuntary contraction in my cunt. Not knowing when he would use them was almost worse than having them in my mouth.

When the game neared its end, I truly tensed up. Winning might annoy him. Losing might cost me dearly. He gave no hint. I made my final move and beat him.

I looked at him in genuine fear.

He merely gathered up the tablet, the clamps, and the gags. He stood, left the bedroom, and closed the door.

I was left alone, my heart still racing, not knowing whether it had been a reprieve or the prelude to something worse. For a while I did nothing but go over every detail, every word, every silence, trying to guess what that victory had meant.

The answer came at lunchtime, though not in the way I expected.

He had prepared meat with vegetables and cut everything up for me so I could eat with my hands tied without difficulty. We ate together in the living room with a domestic calm that threw me off balance. We spoke little, but not because of tension—rather, because of that strange intimacy that settles in when two people understand each other even in silence.

When we finished, he checked my wrists. He asked whether I could keep going like that. I said yes, though I reminded him that I would have to go out to work later and didn't want any marks that were too visible. At once, he reached for the rope to undo the knot.

I stopped him by resting my tied hand on his wrist.

—Leave me like this a little longer, I said. I want to thank you.

He raised an eyebrow without looking away from me. He didn't ask what I intended to do. There was no need.

I led him to the sofa and sat him down. Then I knelt between his legs. I felt the short tug of the rope around my wrists when I brought my hands to his belt, and that small hindrance turned me on even more. Having my hands restricted made every movement deliberate, more service-oriented, more surrendered.

I opened his pants slowly. I lowered the fabric along with his underwear, and his cock emerged, heavy and still soft, resting against his abdomen. Just seeing it made me grow instantly wet. I had been building up desire for too many days, too long without touching myself, without him coming in my mouth, without feeling that my obedience had such a tangible reward.

I began with soft kisses at the base, along the shaft, on the tip. Small, wet, insistent kisses. My fingers cupped his balls from beneath, caressing them with my fingertips and barely any pressure. I liked awakening him that way, feeling him respond little by little, feeling the flesh grow tense beneath my mouth even before I took it inside.

He said nothing. He only spread his legs a little wider for me.

I smiled up at him, holding myself back. Then I moved his cock aside with both hands, clumsy because of the rope, and devoted myself to licking his testicles with the tip of my tongue, slowly, alternating between them. I felt the first real hardening against my cheek as his cock began to rise on its own, reacting to my touch.

I kissed the head once. Then again. Then I brushed it with my teeth, barely pinching it, and felt him tense. I went back down the shaft with my lips closed, tracing its entire length. I loved knowing him so well, knowing which part of his skin made him breathe deeply with a kiss and which made him press his fingers into the sofa.

I was soaked. My cunt throbbed between my legs as if it were asking for attention too, but I wasn't going to give it any. This time was his. I wanted to serve him for real; I wanted him to feel in my mouth how grateful I was, how hot it made me to remain his even after the punishment.

When he was half-hard, I finally opened my mouth and caught the tip between my lips. I held it there, hot and wet, barely moving. I let saliva build up and run down the shaft. Then I used my fingers to spread it from the base to his balls, massaging everything slowly.

He exhaled through his nose, harder.

I took a little more. Just a little. Enough to feel the thickness filling my tongue, enough for the head to press against my palate. I pulled back again, letting it slip from my mouth with a wet smack. I repeated the motion and, this time, slid the tip toward the inside of one cheek, outlining the bulge from the outside. I knew he loved seeing me like that, my face deformed by his cock and drool running down without shame.

His breathing was different now. Denser. More sexual.

I released him only to catch my breath and gave a quiet laugh, wildly aroused, before letting a thread of saliva fall over my own chest. The black silk was stained immediately. I did it again toward the other side without taking my eyes off him. I wanted to provoke him, to give him the full view of my voluntary degradation, of how much I enjoyed getting myself filthy eating his cock.

—I love sucking your cock, I murmured, with no filter left.

And I took it all the way down in a single motion.

The tip struck my throat, and I had to relax it by force, breathing through my nose and keeping still for a few seconds while I adjusted. The rope around my wrists rubbed my skin as I gripped the base. My nose pressed against his stomach. I felt his thick, fully hard cock filling my mouth to the limit of what I could swallow.

I drew my head back slowly, squeezing with my lips and tongue. I lowered myself again just as slowly. Up. Down. Each pass left more saliva, more wet noise, more need. When I reached the bottom, I stayed there for a second with my gag reflex trembling in my chest, then came back up quickly to breathe.

He still gave no orders. He let me do it.

That allowed me to get creative and cruel. I alternated depths. Sometimes only the tip, sucking hard on the head until I felt it grow even harder. Other times, half the shaft at a quick, steady rhythm, warming him without yet giving him what he wanted. Then down to the bottom again, swallowing all of him, holding his balls between my fingers and squeezing lightly while my throat worked him.

The living room began to fill with the obscene sound of my mouth working him. Wet sucking, panting, my saliva pouring over his thighs and my hands. I didn't try to be delicate. I wanted it dirty, visible, physical. I wanted him to feel used in the way that drove both of us crazy.

He ran a hand through my hair, brushing it away from my face. Then he gripped the back of my neck. Not to force me yet, but to make his presence felt, to remind me who decided how far and at what pace. That hand alone made me moan around his cock, and the vibration drew a low growl from him.

I came up to the tip and licked it in quick circles before sinking down again. This time I began to fuck it with my mouth for real: up, down, up, down, faster, using my hand at the base to cover what wouldn't fit. The mixture of tongue, lips, and a slippery fist made his hips tense.

I could feel my own wetness running between my thighs. Every time he made a hoarse sound or dug his fingers a little deeper into my scalp, my cunt clenched around nothing. I was dying to touch myself, but I held back. I wanted to earn the pleasure, not steal it.

I took him all the way in again. Out. Halfway, at a steady rhythm. Down to the bottom again. My throat burned, the corners of my mouth hurt, and my jaw was beginning to ache, but that discomfort made me even hotter. Every small ache proved that I was truly surrendering, not pretending to perform some pretty scene.

Then he finally spoke.

—Faster.

I looked up at him from below, my mouth wet and my chin soaked.

—Yes, sir.

I obeyed at once. He pushed my hair back behind my ears as best he could, and I began moving my head faster, swallowing half his cock again and again. Up and down, up and down, without stopping, letting saliva overflow and run over my tied hands. Every thrust of my mouth drew out a filthy sound, rawer than the last.

He held the back of my neck firmly now. He began matching my movements with small thrusts of his hips—not brutal, but authoritative. Every time I went down, he met my throat a little sooner, making me take him deeper. My eyes watered. I kept going. Drool streamed down to my wrists. I kept going. Little muffled, hoarse sounds escaped me from the sheer effort. I kept going.

—That's it, he said through his teeth. Don't stop.

I didn't stop.

There was no game or tenderness left in the rhythm. Only hunger. I pumped his cock with my mouth like an obedient whore, holding his balls and feeling his abdomen and thighs tense. He held me and used me just enough to set the pace. Every time I reached the bottom, I felt the spasm beginning at the base of his cock and knew he was close.

I came up to lick the tip, and he pushed me back down with his hand on my neck. This time he fucked my mouth for several short, dry, controlled thrusts. My throat protested, but I opened wider and relaxed as much as I could, letting him enter. It was exactly what I wanted: to feel him lose a little control and come because I had brought him to that edge.

Suddenly, his whole body went rigid.

His fingers dug hard into my hair, and his cock throbbed inside my mouth. The first gush struck my tongue, hot and thick. Then came another, and another, driven by the trembling of his abdomen. I stayed still, swallowing as much as I could while he filled my mouth with cum and made me hold it without spilling a drop.

When he finally loosened his grip, I drew him out slowly, still sensitive and throbbing. Cum flooded my tongue and the insides of my cheeks. I lifted my head carefully so I wouldn't lose any and looked up at him, smiling with my mouth half-open, full of his release.

It took him several seconds to return from his orgasm. He breathed with his eyes closed, his mouth half-open, his chest rising and falling. Seeing that expression on his face after coming like that gave me a filthy rush of pride throughout my body. He had emptied himself through my mouth. I had left him trembling.

When he finally opened his eyes and focused on me, I was still kneeling before him, tied and obedient, waiting for the order with his hot semen inside my mouth.

—Swallow.

I did it all at once.

I felt it slide thickly down my throat. I didn't take my eyes from his for a moment. When I finished, I opened my mouth to show him I hadn't kept anything back and stuck out my tongue, shiny and empty.

—Thank you, sir.

His expression changed. The hardness softened into something deeper, more intimate. He took my jaw in one hand and lifted my face. Then he stroked my cheek with his thumb, wiping away a small line of saliva beside my mouth.

I was still burning. I hadn't come or even rubbed my cunt all morning, and yet I felt more satisfied than I could have imagined. Serving him like that, letting him come in my mouth, receiving his approval in that slow caress—it was another kind of orgasm.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. I only had to see the calm smile taking shape as he watched me kneeling between his legs, my silk shirt stained with drool, my wrists still tied, my legs pressed tightly together by the accumulated arousal.

—You've been a good girl, he said at last.

Those five words made me tremble more than any clamp.

He lowered his hand to the rope around my wrists, but he didn't untie it right away. He held it, playing with the knot, making it clear that the decision was still his. Then he placed two fingers beneath my chin and tilted it upward.

—Do you still want to thank me for Saturday? he asked.

I nodded without thinking.

—Then stand up, turn around, and put your hands on the backrest.

The order shot through me like a spark. I stood with an awkward effort because of my position and turned toward the sofa. My heart began racing again. I placed my tied hands on the backrest as he instructed and spread my legs slightly.

I heard his clothes moving behind me. His hands pushed my nightshirt up my thighs until my ass was bare. The cool air against my damp skin made me gasp.

—Look at you, he murmured behind me. You've spent half an hour sucking me and you're still dripping.

His fingers slid between my legs and found my soaked cunt without difficulty. He opened my lips calmly, barely caressing my clitoris before sinking two fingers inside me. They went in easily, with a wet sound that embarrassed and aroused me at the same time.

—Fuck, I blurted, finally losing my composure.

He fingered me slowly at first, just enough to see how I was. Then he sped up. His thumb began working my clitoris while his fingers entered and withdrew with growing force, and within seconds I was moving against his hand like a desperate woman.

—That's how I wanted to see you, he said close to my ear. Needy.

I moaned without hiding myself. After holding back all morning, that contact felt almost violent in its pleasure. Every thrust of his fingers tore a spasm from my belly. My legs were weak. I clung to the sofa as best I could with my tied hands while he spread me wider with his knee between my legs and kept driving his fingers deep inside me.

—Tell me what you want.

—To come, I gasped. I want to come, sir.

His hand pulled suddenly out of my cunt, leaving me empty and throbbing.

—Not yet.

He gave one sharp slap to a buttock. Not very hard, but enough to make me arch my back. Then another. And another. My body answered by blending mild pain and arousal in an obscene way. I felt my cunt throbbing around nothing, begging for more.

He put his fingers back inside me without warning, and this time he was rougher. Three fingers. Fast. Wet with my own lubrication and with the traces of saliva still on his hand. The sound was indecent. I was no longer moaning; I was practically begging.

—You've earned it, he murmured. After the way you sucked me, you've earned it.

His thumb stayed fixed over my clitoris, pressing in precise circles, while his fingers fucked me at a brutal pace. The tension I'd been building for days surged all at once. I felt the orgasm forming quickly, inevitably, squeezing me from below up into my belly.

—Don't stop... please... don't stop...

—Come.

That was all I needed.

I came with a hoarse, drawn-out moan, losing all strength in my legs. The orgasm truly shook me, with repeated spasms around his fingers and a release so intense that I had to press my whole forehead against the sofa backrest to keep from collapsing. He continued a little longer, wringing it out of me until I was trembling and dripping over his hand.

When he finally withdrew, I could barely breathe normally.

I felt him finally undo the knot around my wrists. The rope fell away, and he massaged my hands for a few seconds with an almost tender patience. Then he turned me toward him and kissed me. Deeply. Without being repulsed by the semen still fresh in my mouth, without haste, savoring all of me.

I rested my forehead against his and closed my eyes.

I no longer felt punished. Or imprisoned. In moments like that, my place within his control didn't resemble a sentence, but a private language that only the two of us spoke well.

He brushed a lock of hair from my face and smiled.

—Now you can. Go get changed before you leave.

I smiled back, my legs still trembling.

The blowjob of his life, I thought. And from the way he continued looking at me, I knew he agreed.