Lottery Un-Lucky

Oct 18, 2012

An unusual gift for me from a gambling man today: half a dozen National lottery scratch cards that promised untold riches with just a wave of my hands.  I duly thanked him with some inescapable bondage on my medical bench before starting to scratch open the cards to see just how much I had won. It formed the basis for a fun new game. As I slipped a huge electric butt-plug into his rear, I outlined the rules. A jackpot win would bring this unfortunate slave the reward of astonishing sexual delights, the likes of which he could never have previously imagined. For a medium win, I would speed up the milking machine attached to his cock, and encourage a satisfying orgasm with a minimum of pain and discomfort. Anything less would, of course, have to involve some serious discipline for building my hopes up and then failing to satisfy me: a situation that no woman could allow to go unpunished.

Although my slave was thoroughly gagged and unable to speak, I could almost hear him willing Lady Luck to shine upon us as I slowly scratched the cards to reveal his fate.  Honestly, I wanted us both to win, not just for the riches that might bring, but because it seemed a little unfair for his friendly gesture to be turned against him in so cruel a way. But alas and alack, the fates were not with him that day. Card after card turned up blank, until just one remained. By now the look in his eyes had turned from excitement and hope to fear and despair, sensations compounded by my running commentary as each new card added to my disappointment. T he final total?  A miserly £2 win. It was nothing like enough to save him from his fate, and I duly spent a little while whispering in his ear, explaining just what dungeon delights were not about to come his way. For me it was a win-win situation because, although the money would have been nice, there is nothing that gets my juices flowing as much as having a valid reason to set about my work with a helpless, tightly-bound man.

First step was to turn up the power of the electrics that had, until then, been quietly ticking away in his arse. Next I got out my heaviest, black, rubber sheet and draped it across his prone body so that he could not only feel the weight of rubber pressing down upon him but also could smell the rubber aroma enveloping him like a latex cocoon.  True, the sheet did also press down more heavily on the electric nipple clamps, but I thought that was a small price to pay for the fun of satisfying his rubber fetish to the full. I did toy with the idea of leaving him like that for hours, incessantly wanked by my self-lubricating milking machine, but I feared his cock control might not be up to the task.  Sure enough, I was in the end proved right, as he spunked every drop from his overfull balls into the milking machine’s silicon vacuum-tube.  For me, that is always a fascinating moment: once a man has shot his load, he often wants nothing more than to be released, showered and sent on his way. But the wanking machine has no emotions at all. It just carries on regardless, pumping and pumping and flushing the fluids away. How long did I leave him connected? Long enough to teach him that the next time he buys a lottery card… he had better pick a winner.
 

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