The Treatment

[andy250]

The Treatment


All writing is copyright of Manwam/Andy250. You cannot reproduce
this work without the author's prior consent. Nor can anyone resell
the work without prior agreement. All rights reserved. The
characters and events in this story are fictional. Any resemblance
to persons, whether alive or dead, is coincidental.



It Begins:




YOUR MAN HAS sealed your fate. He has ordered you to meet him
at the disused warehouse. Hence, you are sitting on the bus.
The other night, while you made love, he confessed he wants to
obliterate you with food, custard pies, gunge, mud and any other
filth he can lay his hands on. To heighten the experience, he
wants to play in an industrial location. People might pass;
someone may see you in a fucked state! The more this
fantasy rattles around your mind, the more you want it.
What to wear? It has to be the womaniser blouse and a tight black
satin skirt. Even though you know your outfit will end up as rags
on your abused, ruined body.
Two guys (sitting on other seats) give you that look. You
guessed you would turn heads, and have. Your heart pounds as the
anticipation builds. Underneath your blouse, you are wearing a white
satin front clasp bra. You want to caress your breasts. Dampness
rises in your thong under a pair of matching satin French knickers,
which have a suspender belt attached to them. Clasped to these
are white stockings and the same colour high heels.
If a stranger asked you to let them fuck you in this outfit, you'd
say yes. You'd bend over the seat so those guys – who checked you
out – could take you – hard – from behind. (A fantasy flashes
through your mind. The men tear your blouse open, unclasp your
bra and expose your ample breasts.)
It's time to rise and ring the bell. When you pass the blokes, you
make sure you flash your leg and pray they get a glimpse of your
suspender belt. Is one semi-erect?
The bus stops. You alight and approach the old disused
warehouse; your car has arrived; he's here: has he got the mess
ready? You stop and intake a deep breath of air. Once you enter,
you know how the play will end. An urge rises in your mind. You
want to thrust your hands into your skirt, then into your knickers
to masturbate, but you resist. It's now or never.



Abducted, abused, tied and pied:




INSIDE THE PROPERTY, your heels echo on the once busy
warehouse/factory floor. The building is now a shell of its former
self. Yet today, the place lives again as your sex palace. Many
spots are available for him to tie, pie and torment you.
He comes at you from behind. Your world goes black; he has
blindfolded you.
"Fuck you, office bitch, you're coming with me!" He pulls your
head back by your hair. You put your hands out to defend yourself.
He slaps both down and orders. "Stand still and present yourself!"
His tone makes you snap to attention. He puts your hands
around your back and cuffs your wrists together; the touch of the
cold stainless steel against your skin gets you damp.
Your dominant's warm hands slide down your body and brush
against your skirt. He clasps a pair of shackles around your ankles;
endorphins march around your veins, your heart increases,
anticipation grows.
"Let me go, you fucker!" you play gasp.
He sounds stern, sexy. "Shut up. They have not paid the ransom,
nor do they want to. So I will now dismantle you – to make them pay!"
The scent of his aftershave invades the air; again, fantasies march
around your mind. He could bend you over, tear off your skirt, then
fuck you blindfolded, and you'd ask for more. His hands grope the
front of your blouse; the material scrunches up. Your satin bra strains
to hold your breasts as he plays with them. You lean over his left
shoulder, allowing him a better feel. He undoes the three middle
buttons of your blouse, slides his hands in and can do as he wishes!
The brute unclasps your bra, exposes your breasts and massages
them. "You bastard! The company will make you pay for this rude,
indecent attack," you use a snooty voice.
"They won't. You will get fucked!"
"Get off my tits, and re-clasp my bra, you pervert!" You giggle.
He sounds stern as he does the top two buttons of your blouse
back up. "No chance. Your breasts are staying exposed. Office slut!"
Your dominant leaves the middle one open.
To increase your submission, he, again, grabs your hair at the
back of your head, then pushes you forward. Still blindfolded, he
forces you to follow his lead:
"Up these stairs to the old office, slut. Here you will receive the
treatment until the company pays!"
"What if they pay in custard?"
"We will be here for a long time!" He laughs, then pushes you
forward again. Your ankles bump into a set of stairs. "Climb," he
commands.
You rise into (what appeared to be when you arrived) the disused
offices. One of your fantasies is about to become a reality. Has
he brought the nasty, horrid, rank things you've asked for?
The room smells musty; he leads you by your hair, dumps you into
an old office chair, ties your hands to the back and removes your
blindfold.
The room looks yellow; paint is peeling from the walls, the location
lacks TLC. There are tables full of custard pies and buckets of what
looks like oil. Or is it dirty water?
He pushes a trolley on wheels in front of you. It's full of custard pies,
jugs of spaghetti, beans, lots of soups and any other foods he loaded
into your car. You pull on your ties; it's no good; endorphins take over
(like an army on the march). Will your outfit survive?
He lifts two pies (one in each hand). You try to push back, but the
chair wheels no longer work. Nowhere to go!
The brute attacks both sides of your head; custard engulfs you. His
third pie, he slaps down the back of your blouse; when the custard
splats against the fabric, it arouses you.
Now you find out why he has opened one of your blouse buttons. The
fourth pie he slides into the gap and pies your left breast. (He pie
gropes you!) You moan.
Your dominant grabs his fifth pie, this offering he slaps in your face
and rubs the contents into your skin!
You smell the custard and the jam; the mess drips down your shiny
blouse. To torment him, you jiggle your breasts.
He lifts a carton of custard, stands to your left, and pulls your hair
back. The beast glugs you in the face, drenching you in thick yellow
liquid, which feels like heaven. He holds your head upwards by your
hair. The barrage flows down your neck and into, then down, the
neckline of your blouse. Your breasts rise and fall, telling him the
messy assault flicked your switch. Smiling, he steps away.
"You bastard. The office will make you pay dearly for this!"
He lifts a bucket, which looks like the liquid from earlier. (Again,
is it oil or water?) The beast waits, then tosses the thick and
colourful liquid over your blouse, cooking oil with food dye mixed
into it. The bastard!
He rubs the mixture into your breasts, your armpits and the front
of your skirt; you surrender to his assault.
"Look at the state of me.” You giggle.
"This is nothing. The business only has two minutes to pay. Or I
will sexually dismantle you. Office whore!"
"How dare you!" Again, you sound snooty, then smile—the oil and
the pie inside your blouse mixes, a divine sensation. You crave
the wet yet thick liquid material as it clings to your breasts.
He undoes your ties, lifts your right arm, grabs another litre of
custard and pours the gift inside the right sleeve of your blouse
towards your armpit.
The liquid rolls inside the fabric; your temperature rises; sexual
urges increase!
He places the carton on the trolley. Lifts a pie and slaps this gift
into your raised armpit; the custard splatters everywhere. (You
lower your arm.)
His phone beeps; a text; he shows you the message Fuck her!
We will not pay! He says, "Your office is telling me you need a
good sorting!"
He must have asked a friend to message him. You try to reply, but
you're in fits of laughter; you find his idea brilliant. "Fuck you. Or
fuck me!"
He lifts the other pies off the trolley and places them on the floor.
Then he pushes the trolley next to you. "Trolley dolly time!" He sounded
stern; your endorphins increase their marching speed. The beast
swoops you into his manly arms; you melt.
Now, you are face up on the trolley. He ties your wrists to the legs.
our legs dangle over the other end; he secures your ankles via the
shackles. He vanishes: what is he doing?
He returns, holding another carton, cream. Your dominant wastes
no time; he squeezes the lot through your open blouse button; cold,
smelly liquid splodges over your breasts. He follows up with another
custard pie in your face. Is he wrecking your blouse? The custard,
the cream, the cooking oil and the jam have now mixed into the
material; you adore the sight.
Your dominant hitches up your skirt and stands between your legs.
You seize the moment and rub your left heel into his crotch to let
him know you're his if he wishes.
No! He pushes you along in front of him. You end up in front of a
desk with large custard pies placed on it. Again, he tampers with
your skirt. What now? The zip lowers; your skirt slides towards your
ankles and comes to rest on the shackles. It's the French knickers;
he wants to bombard your thong and your vagina! The first pie
splatters, with force, into the centre of your knickers. Will he rub
the custard into the fabric? No, he goes for his second pie – in the
same place! More custard flies across the room. Your French knickers
have a slit in them at the front. He slides his hands in, moves your
thong aside and masturbates you with vigour.
"OOOOOHHHHH!" you cry. He stops for five seconds, then continues
working for you. "FUCK, YES!" you shout. He splurges a litre of custard
inside your French knickers, saturating them.
The beast stands next to your head and spins the trolley round in
front of him. He pushes you towards a wall, stops and undoes your
ankle ties. Your shackles stay in place. Sir tips the trolley up; you're
standing upright again; the custard flows from your French knickers,
attacking your white stockings. You don't converse. What is happening?
He unzips his flies and exposes himself; he's erect. Sir slides his
penis into the slit in your French knickers. For the second time,
his hands sweep your thong aside. His cock enters your vagina;
he pumps.
"Fuck, yes!" you blurt.
His hands show your blouse no mercy – he tears it open. The
sound of the fabric coming apart drives you wild; your pelvis burns!
Messy clothed sex, your brain goes into overdrive.
"AAAAHHHH, OOHHHH, FUCK YES!" you cry.
After another minute of pumping, he withdraws. "You're a fucked
office slut now. I'm only just getting started. They will pay, or I will
abuse you all over this building!" He steps away, lifts a jug of pea
and ham soup and throws the offering in your face. The gift drips
down your cleavage. You wish he would come and retake you – hard.





The stairs:




AGAIN, HE CHECKS his phone—no new messages. “It appears they
are going to put you through more!” He frees you from the trolley,
which feels good. Your arms ached, not that you would have changed
the play when he fucked you.
You are about to pull up your skirt when. "No, leave it there!" he
commands.
You submit. He again re-cuffs your wrists behind your back; you
smell beans, spaghetti, soups, treacle and other rank mess, which
he has put somewhere.
The brute pulls your hair (it is one of his kinks), then leads you
out of the room the way you came. This time he does not use the
blindfold. He cuffs you to the bannister at the bottom of the stairs,
faces you, and opens your torn blouse. Should anyone pass by, they
will see you restrained and abused with food. You adore every second.
He vanishes up the stairs.
You wonder where he has gone. Then you wish you hadn't. "The
office will make you pay dearly for this!" you try to sound in control.
"Looks like rain," he shouts.
Your dominant splatters you with a gallon of soup, which stinks.
(The impact destroys your hairstyle.) More foul concoctions rain
down on you. Should you move your head and try to protect yourself?
You realise your idea is futile. A delivery of beans splatters over
the left-hand side of your head, your left shoulder, down your back
and over your exposed left breast. Your torn blouse offers no
protection from his barrage; more soup follows, which smells like
mushroom. Again, he tips the offering over your left shoulder,
spaghetti too. Your destroyed womaniser blouse loses the fight
and slides off your left shoulder. His feet clang against the metal
as he marches back down the stairs.
The mess he poured from on high has pooled in your skirt around
your ankles.
He appears, holding a jug of soup. The bastard! No, not in the
French knickers.
He tosses his present at your vagina, which looks like Minestrone,
through the sodden material. The liquid slops down the front of your
underwear like a waterfall. Then it rolls down your stockings, which
are now many colours. The jug is half-empty. He pulls open the slit
in your French knickers and tips the rest inside; the beast masturbates
you with a passion.
"You fucker. Fingering and fucking me," you blurt. "Why don't you
take me again?"
He steps back and exposes himself again, hard as nails. You want
his cock, but don't want to ruin the moment. That said, he will not
give you any choice!
Your dominant yanks your underwear around your ankles; his hand
slaps your left thigh to get you to part your legs (as much as possible
with the restraints).
"God, yes!" you mutter when he enters you. Long, forceful thrusts
part you. You stink! More slow, long thrusts. You gasp. He wants to
take you apart with sexual play; he stops and withdraws.
You have no way to pull your French Knickers back up around your
thighs.
He delivers a pie sandwich to your head, which engulfs your hair and
face with more custard, cream, and jam. You lick your lips to show
him you will blow him.
He steps behind you, undoes your cuffs and leads you into the centre
of the enormous warehouse. Two chains hang from the high roof. He
attaches your wrists to them, bends you over and slips back in; the
fuck-fest recommences. This time his thrusts are quicker, intenser.
"More, more!" you gasp; you lean forward so he can slide every inch
inside of you if he chooses to. More thrusts; he moans. Is he close to
orgasm? Again, he withdraws.
You let the chains take your weight. Will more mess follow? You want
him to destroy you.
He lifts two pies, steps behind you, and delivers a powerful shot to
your ass. You cry out with joy.
His next pie, he rubs, with vigour, into your swollen vagina. Sir's
hands roam your body and grope your breasts. Again, his fingers slip
into the mixture of the mess and the pre-cum in your vagina.
You deliver more moans as he works you with a passion. If he
continues, you'll be close to orgasm.
He walks to a table. Will he grab a pair of vibrators?
"Oh, God, what now!" You call out as the first sex aid slips inside you,
making your vagina pulse. He lodges the second between your butt
cheeks but doesn't penetrate your ass hole. The beast stimulates your
pelvis, you are in trouble, and you know it. You struggle to hold back
the orgasm your body wants to force upon you. He pours more custard
onto your vagina while the vibrator pulses.
Your head lowers; you cannot withstand much more. "Pie me in the
tits,” you gasp. “You bastard!”
He reaches for more ammunition and splats this offering between
your breasts; your nipples protrude. Your dominant works the vibrator
with a strong work ethic.
"Ooh, ah!" Your back arches as you orgasm.
He masturbates in front of you, stops, removes the toys, and takes
you – hard – from the front. This time it's a rough fuck. Even though
you've cum, you crave another climax.
His entire shaft has entered you. "OH, GOD, YES!" you shout; forceful
thrusts increase.
You try to lower yourself onto him; the restraints stop you. Your body
spasms each time he delivers; you're hypertensive. The play has
dismantled your mind. He has destroyed your outfit.
He cannot last any longer – his hot spunk shoots up you.
You cum for the second time, caused by his penetration. Post-fucking,
you relax and let the chains take your weight. He withdraws; you dangle
there a destroyed used wreck.






The Phone rings, not:




HE LEAVES YOU for five minutes, then returns.
Sperm drips from the end of his long limp penis, where he came like
an elephant.
He unties your wrists from the chains. You drop to your hands and
knees to recover.
"Stay down, office slut,” he commands.
An image enters your mind; he takes you hard on all fours. "Fuck
me again." You cry while pulling up your thong and swamped French
knickers.
"Leave them down – slut!" he sounds stern.
You obey.
He moves behind you, lifts you onto your feet and leads you around
the warehouse. Your skirt drags on the floor as it rests against your
ankle shackles. The beast signals; you stop. On your left is a bucket
of what looks like black treacle or tar. He lifts the gift and tips the
contents over your French knickers; his delivery swamps your skirt and
thong. The substance splashes onto your stocking-clad legs.
"That's those fucked. You won't be worrying about them anymore,"
he says.
"Guess not!" You try to recover from the intense fuck-fest. He makes
you totter further through the warehouse and pulls at the remains of
your blouse (so it hangs off your back). Apart from your stockings and
your suspenders, you are defenceless.
A cross comes into view, two poles tied together sideways, at head
height. He spins you around and shackles your wrists to a pole back-first.
Again, you're at his mercy and crave more messy destruction.
His pants are nearby; he checks his phone. “No ransom. I will give
you more treatment!”
You pull on your shackles; you are secure. On the floor are buckets
of gunge.
He lifts the first and throws the contents at your breasts; the impact
feels warm and sexy. The second he pours over your head, you close
your eyes (the goo engulfs you). The sensation envelops you when the
mixture slithers over your body, then pools in your skirt and your lingerie.
He throws more gunge over the back of your blouse, which should fall
off, but a pole stops the descent. The beast shows you a tub of soft
margarine, adds a black liquid and mixes the combination! The lot
goes in your hair; he massages the foul combo into your roots.
"You bastard!" you mutter.
"You must suffer. Your employers have not paid." He grabs an empty
jug, dips it into a bucket of gunge; good God, he is semi-erect again!
Sir puts his left hand under your vagina, and with his free hand, he
tips the gunge over your vagina lips. The warmth massages you; again,
his fingers slide back into your vagina and work you.
"Oh!" you moan. This time, the play is slower and more intense.
Two of his fingers massage the front of your vagina. He slips a third
in and stimulates your pussy in an anti-clockwise motion; the arousal
makes you relax. You close your eyes. The buzz from a vibrator
comes forth as he again penetrates you; your head lowers; you submit;
he steps up a gear.
"Yes, yes," more moans from you.
He doesn't reply but continues to work you over. Your dominant finds
a pie and slaps it in your face.
"I want to suck your cock!”
He responds and takes you down from the cross. You struggle to control
your desires as you slide onto your knees and take him.
You want his shaft; you're too horny to mess around with the tip. He
moans as you work him hard. Bringing your lips off his cock, you
masturbate him. Slow, long pumps of his broad, stiff shaft. He scans
the warehouse: What is he looking for?
He points at a big wooden drum that has shackles on it. Pushes you
back, then lifts you back to your feet. Before you know what's happening,
he ties you to the restraint (back-first, by your wrists).
Another batch of pre-cum glistens on the end of his stiff shaft. Dear
Lord, he is ready again!
He grabs two buckets of gunge and throws both over you. You adore
the warmth as the goo envelops your body.
Your lover fucks you with long, hard thrusts. He sucks on your pert,
erect nipples.
“God, yes!” You cry and pull on your shackles. The gunge he has
thrown over you shimmers like a second skin on your skin. His thrusts
are forceful; he moans. Your body arches each time he penetrates you.
You lose mental control, making you want him more.
He slaps your legs to get you to part them wider. God. How much
more has he got? He steps up a gear. His thrusts become very
pleasurable. Again, a climax begins.
"More, give me everything!" you whisper.
He pushes up with each thrust.
"AAH, yes!" you call out.
The play continues for a long time. (Or at least that's how the
session feels.) His thrusts become longer and slower. He tries to
hold back from his second orgasm but cannot!
He delivers. A second massive stream of sperm enters you. You
adore the sensation.
"Release me. People might watch," again, you whisper, trying to recover.
"Let them!" He then does as you ask and takes you off the drum.
What an afternoon of messy sex. The question is: Did any
passers-by see you?
Until the next time#