Humiliated Into Orgasm.
Posted: 22 Mar 2009, 10:23‘Another of your shite outfits?’
There was silence.
‘Piss off and get changed…again!’
That hurt; leaving the room for the second time and with no explanation. But in the bedroom wardrobe all became clear. On a little ‘post-it’ note stuck to the lapel of my dark grey suit were the words – ‘this is the outfit I want you to wear.’ I must have missed it last time. There was also a pale cream blouse on the hanger inside. One of my smartest work outfits. I took it ruefully off the rail. There was no point arguing. Stripping off and putting on the suit sent a tingle up my spine.
Back in the spare room I sat on the bare plastic chair in the middle of the floor and stared at the sea of heavy duty polythene.
‘Ahh…finally! So you can fucking read then? Pretty basic qualification for a secretary isn’t it?
Smarmy little git. He put his index finger under my chin and raised my face until our eyes met.
‘Call that makeup?’ he spluttered. ‘Cocoa the fucking Clown could make a better job of it. Fuck off and come back when you look tartier.’
I got up and dutifully left the room again. All this playing for time was making my insides churn. Not just in anger either. The anticipation of what was about to happen was getting to me.
Suitably tarty – more lipstick and eyeshadow, and I was back.
This time he said nothing; just quietly walked round the room as I stared at the floor.
‘Tell me’ he said finally ‘what do you think are your best assets…hmm?’
‘Err. I’d say my legs.’
One thing about the short skirt of the grey suit was that it certainly showed off the legs nicely.
‘Your legs you say?’ He started sniggering. ‘You think that because you run and swim a bit you’ve got nice legs? This time he really started laughing
‘You’re a fucking joke you are. This is what I think of your legs.’ He moved towards the table and picked something up.
A gush of expectation welled inside me. In his hand was a block of bright white lard. He pulled my right leg off the floor and pushed the block of lard up my shin to the knee. It left a thick smear of grease up my black tights. Within seconds the greasy fat was smeared round my calves, between my toes and up my thighs. Then he did my left leg. It looked bizarre, my legs caked in white lard, and when he had finished, his hands glistened with the melted residue. He wiped them on my skirt. The feeling on my legs was strangely sensual.
‘Two podgy little sticks of lard. That’s all they are’ he said triumphantly.
‘You’ll be telling me next you’ve got a pretty arse!’ he quipped.
‘Well...’ I began.
‘What?’
I could almost see the flecks of surprise on his lips.
‘Six years I’ve known you and you’ve always had a backside like a barn door. How dare you. Stand up!’ he ordered.
Next thing I was touching my toes, skirt up round my waist and taking three sharp smacks on my bottom. The bastard. He was really making me earn this. Then there was fresh air on my bottom and the sensation of something wet and heavy falling into my knickers. An empty tin clunked into the corner of the room. Oh my! This was starting to get to me.
‘Look at it!’ he demanded, and turned me to face the full length mirror. Whatever had been poured into my knickers was now bulging to get out. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
‘What did I tell you? Fattest arse this side of town! Sit down now!’
He let go of my skirt and it fell back down to my thighs. I knew that he knew I’d enjoy the next bit. I smiled at him sweetly as my full weight sat back in the seat. I tried not to give anything away, but it was difficult.
I acted nonchalantly but I badly wanted to shove my hand up my skirt and play with the mush in my crotch. Not just yet.
He watched me slowly rock side to side on the seat, then he disappeared back to the table.
‘I saw Janie in town today’ he said. ‘Asked if you’d had that boob job yet? Tits the size of yours you need one really.’
The cheeky twat! They’re not that small …and Janie would never say that.
He stood behind me, slowly undid my blouse and slid a hand into my right bra cup.
‘Barely a handful. Pathetic! You need some extra filling in there.’
A dollop of strawberry jam, the size of a clenched fist, dropped into my bra. With the palm of his hand he brushed over the cotton fabric and spread it across my boob. Then he did the other one. Did he really know how this was making me feel?
He carefully re-did the buttons on my blouse and stood to face me. Still I just stared at his feet.
‘Why did I marry a pig thick blonde like you Jules?’ he sighed. ‘I want a redhead’ he announced.
I closed my eyes. A cold liquid spread over my head and began to pour in rivulets down my face and over my shoulders. I took a quick taste test. Yep…tomato soup, how fucking predictable. I could feel it soaking through the skirt, then drumming on the polythene sheet. It seemed to go on for ever. Then, something heavier splattered into my hair. Its smell grabbed the back of my throat and the embarrassing noise the plastic bottle gave as it fired its last remnants over my face confirmed it was ketchup.
All I could do was sit; eyes closed, and take it. I imagined him watching me, mentally deciding how to humiliate me next. It was a rude, raw feeling. All that time dressing up, the hair, the makeup.
‘Nah…you’re still fucking ugly’ he blurted ‘how about brunette?’
God, what next?
It was right over my head again. This time, it was the heavy, ponderous, helmet-like sensation of black treacle. It had to be. I couldn’t help but lift my face to feel the black mask seal itself around my nose, eyes and ears. Wave after wave covered my face, running into my lap, down my back and over my arms. It felt strangely warm.
This time I really did feel like I was glued to the seat. Then I felt something like a powder falling onto my head.
‘Not flour?’ I pleaded.
It didn’t stop. I could feel it piling up in my lap, on top of my head and over my shoulders
‘Who the fuck gave you permission to speak? Open you mouth…bitch. This’ll keep you quiet.’
The taste and texture of the glob filling my mouth nearly made me retch. It was some kind of soft spread or margarine. I couldn’t physically swallow it. It was all I could do to let it dribble out of the corner of my mouth down my blouse. Then there was more of the same being pushed into my face, smeared into my ears and shoved through my hair. I lifted my hand up to try and wipe my eyes, but it was roughly pushed back down again. His hands were in my hair again pushing and pulling it into knots, heaping it up. The total indignity of the situation was setting me on fire.
Then he pushed his dick into my face. Even through the grotesque face pack I could make out the shape of his swollen bell-end. He pushed it into my eye sockets and my nose, then wiped it round my forehead. It jabbed at my lips and I opened my mouth to let it slide inside. All I could think of now was the need to stick my hand into my knickers to relieve my clit.
I gagged for a second as the collars of my blouse and jacket were pulled away from my neck. A bottle of something was stuck down inside and immediately I could feel its contents flooding down my back and spilling into the seat. Cooking oil was the only thing I could think it could be. All the while, my ears and hair were his handlebars for my face fucking.
He pulled his dick out of my mouth. For the last five minutes he hadn’t said a word. He took my hands and raised my arms above my head. Into each hand he placed an egg then closed his hands around mine and squeezed until the shells burst and spilt their slithering contents down the inside of my sleeves. Twelve times he did it; six eggs down each arm. And still my eyes were glued shut.
His hands opened the front of the jacket. Please, just get on with it. Please just strip me and fuck me…now! In a staccato burst of pinging buttons he ripped the blouse apart. Through blurry eyes I could start to see again. The floor was littered with empty containers; the cooking oil bottle, an empty flour bag, tins and squeezy bottles. Weighing heavily in my lap was a sea of egg yolk, treacle and god knows what else.
‘Jules’…he paused. ‘You are one filthy fucking pig. A wardrobe full of lovely clothes and you choose to look like this!’
The jacket and blouse were pulled to the sides of my shoulders and warm hands ferreted into my bra to pull my jammy breasts out.
‘What would your boss think ehh’?
A burst of flash exploded in my face followed by the whir of our nasty little Polaroid camera. The stamp addressed envelope he waved in front of me had my boss’s name on it. It was marked ‘Private and confidential.’ He put the photo inside.
‘Maybe he’ll not recognise you?’
The taunting, teasing little bastard! At every turn he had something else to humiliate me with.
Off came my jacket. He stood on the lining, tore the arm off, then ripped it right up the back.
‘I didn’t like it anyway’ he said. ‘You always had crap dress sense.’
I refused to look him in the eye. It might give away how fucking turned on I was!
‘Kneel for me little piggy!’ he commanded.
I slid off the chair onto my knees and he sat astride my back facing my bottom. Up came my skirt.
‘It’s time to play guess the filling Jules’ he teased.
It could have been anything. It was wet, it was lumpy and it oozed over my bum and pooled in the gusset of my knickers like a crude oil slick.
‘Baked beans maybe’ I said.
‘Wrong! Spaghetti hoops’ he cried.
The wedgie for failure nearly blew my mind. Sodden, pasta packed panties jamming against my clit had me weak at the knees. This just wasn’t right!
Second time round there was nothing oozing over my bum, no plop of slop into the gusset, just the sensation of solid chunks dropping into the cotton clad morass. This time, with knickers and tights pulled back into place it was his fingers massaging the knicker-load into my cunt that blew my brain. It flipped me. An overwhelming orgasmic blast hit me. He knew I was coming. Then the sick shit rolled the empty tin in front of me.
I read the label straight off: ‘Whiskas…sardines and trout in jelly.’
You! You!’ I could barely spit the words out.
The sick twat had humiliated me and brought me to orgasm with cat food! He was pissing himself with laughter, then without warning, he dug his nails into my tights and tore them up my legs before landing me with another pussy-splitting wedgie.
The game was over. We were both crying with laughter now. He couldn’t keep up the torturers façade any longer. I had him on the floor and ground my filthy little fanny into his nose and mouth. His cock was waving round like an angry cutlass so I wanked his shaft with a fist full of slop, and sat on him until he was buried ball-deep in my pussy. It was the rudest, filthiest fuck ever.
When we had finished, and his tired dick slipped out of me in a gush of spunk and slosh, I peeled off the remains of my knickers and poked them up his bottom with my little finger. It was an incredibly kinky, spur of the moment thing to do. He just lay there and took it, flinching occasionally as my finger probed indelicately. He knew very well what he’d just done to me and how much he’d enjoyed it. A pair of his wife’s filthy knickers up the arse was a small price to pay!
There was silence.
‘Piss off and get changed…again!’
That hurt; leaving the room for the second time and with no explanation. But in the bedroom wardrobe all became clear. On a little ‘post-it’ note stuck to the lapel of my dark grey suit were the words – ‘this is the outfit I want you to wear.’ I must have missed it last time. There was also a pale cream blouse on the hanger inside. One of my smartest work outfits. I took it ruefully off the rail. There was no point arguing. Stripping off and putting on the suit sent a tingle up my spine.
Back in the spare room I sat on the bare plastic chair in the middle of the floor and stared at the sea of heavy duty polythene.
‘Ahh…finally! So you can fucking read then? Pretty basic qualification for a secretary isn’t it?
Smarmy little git. He put his index finger under my chin and raised my face until our eyes met.
‘Call that makeup?’ he spluttered. ‘Cocoa the fucking Clown could make a better job of it. Fuck off and come back when you look tartier.’
I got up and dutifully left the room again. All this playing for time was making my insides churn. Not just in anger either. The anticipation of what was about to happen was getting to me.
Suitably tarty – more lipstick and eyeshadow, and I was back.
This time he said nothing; just quietly walked round the room as I stared at the floor.
‘Tell me’ he said finally ‘what do you think are your best assets…hmm?’
‘Err. I’d say my legs.’
One thing about the short skirt of the grey suit was that it certainly showed off the legs nicely.
‘Your legs you say?’ He started sniggering. ‘You think that because you run and swim a bit you’ve got nice legs? This time he really started laughing
‘You’re a fucking joke you are. This is what I think of your legs.’ He moved towards the table and picked something up.
A gush of expectation welled inside me. In his hand was a block of bright white lard. He pulled my right leg off the floor and pushed the block of lard up my shin to the knee. It left a thick smear of grease up my black tights. Within seconds the greasy fat was smeared round my calves, between my toes and up my thighs. Then he did my left leg. It looked bizarre, my legs caked in white lard, and when he had finished, his hands glistened with the melted residue. He wiped them on my skirt. The feeling on my legs was strangely sensual.
‘Two podgy little sticks of lard. That’s all they are’ he said triumphantly.
‘You’ll be telling me next you’ve got a pretty arse!’ he quipped.
‘Well...’ I began.
‘What?’
I could almost see the flecks of surprise on his lips.
‘Six years I’ve known you and you’ve always had a backside like a barn door. How dare you. Stand up!’ he ordered.
Next thing I was touching my toes, skirt up round my waist and taking three sharp smacks on my bottom. The bastard. He was really making me earn this. Then there was fresh air on my bottom and the sensation of something wet and heavy falling into my knickers. An empty tin clunked into the corner of the room. Oh my! This was starting to get to me.
‘Look at it!’ he demanded, and turned me to face the full length mirror. Whatever had been poured into my knickers was now bulging to get out. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
‘What did I tell you? Fattest arse this side of town! Sit down now!’
He let go of my skirt and it fell back down to my thighs. I knew that he knew I’d enjoy the next bit. I smiled at him sweetly as my full weight sat back in the seat. I tried not to give anything away, but it was difficult.
I acted nonchalantly but I badly wanted to shove my hand up my skirt and play with the mush in my crotch. Not just yet.
He watched me slowly rock side to side on the seat, then he disappeared back to the table.
‘I saw Janie in town today’ he said. ‘Asked if you’d had that boob job yet? Tits the size of yours you need one really.’
The cheeky twat! They’re not that small …and Janie would never say that.
He stood behind me, slowly undid my blouse and slid a hand into my right bra cup.
‘Barely a handful. Pathetic! You need some extra filling in there.’
A dollop of strawberry jam, the size of a clenched fist, dropped into my bra. With the palm of his hand he brushed over the cotton fabric and spread it across my boob. Then he did the other one. Did he really know how this was making me feel?
He carefully re-did the buttons on my blouse and stood to face me. Still I just stared at his feet.
‘Why did I marry a pig thick blonde like you Jules?’ he sighed. ‘I want a redhead’ he announced.
I closed my eyes. A cold liquid spread over my head and began to pour in rivulets down my face and over my shoulders. I took a quick taste test. Yep…tomato soup, how fucking predictable. I could feel it soaking through the skirt, then drumming on the polythene sheet. It seemed to go on for ever. Then, something heavier splattered into my hair. Its smell grabbed the back of my throat and the embarrassing noise the plastic bottle gave as it fired its last remnants over my face confirmed it was ketchup.
All I could do was sit; eyes closed, and take it. I imagined him watching me, mentally deciding how to humiliate me next. It was a rude, raw feeling. All that time dressing up, the hair, the makeup.
‘Nah…you’re still fucking ugly’ he blurted ‘how about brunette?’
God, what next?
It was right over my head again. This time, it was the heavy, ponderous, helmet-like sensation of black treacle. It had to be. I couldn’t help but lift my face to feel the black mask seal itself around my nose, eyes and ears. Wave after wave covered my face, running into my lap, down my back and over my arms. It felt strangely warm.
This time I really did feel like I was glued to the seat. Then I felt something like a powder falling onto my head.
‘Not flour?’ I pleaded.
It didn’t stop. I could feel it piling up in my lap, on top of my head and over my shoulders
‘Who the fuck gave you permission to speak? Open you mouth…bitch. This’ll keep you quiet.’
The taste and texture of the glob filling my mouth nearly made me retch. It was some kind of soft spread or margarine. I couldn’t physically swallow it. It was all I could do to let it dribble out of the corner of my mouth down my blouse. Then there was more of the same being pushed into my face, smeared into my ears and shoved through my hair. I lifted my hand up to try and wipe my eyes, but it was roughly pushed back down again. His hands were in my hair again pushing and pulling it into knots, heaping it up. The total indignity of the situation was setting me on fire.
Then he pushed his dick into my face. Even through the grotesque face pack I could make out the shape of his swollen bell-end. He pushed it into my eye sockets and my nose, then wiped it round my forehead. It jabbed at my lips and I opened my mouth to let it slide inside. All I could think of now was the need to stick my hand into my knickers to relieve my clit.
I gagged for a second as the collars of my blouse and jacket were pulled away from my neck. A bottle of something was stuck down inside and immediately I could feel its contents flooding down my back and spilling into the seat. Cooking oil was the only thing I could think it could be. All the while, my ears and hair were his handlebars for my face fucking.
He pulled his dick out of my mouth. For the last five minutes he hadn’t said a word. He took my hands and raised my arms above my head. Into each hand he placed an egg then closed his hands around mine and squeezed until the shells burst and spilt their slithering contents down the inside of my sleeves. Twelve times he did it; six eggs down each arm. And still my eyes were glued shut.
His hands opened the front of the jacket. Please, just get on with it. Please just strip me and fuck me…now! In a staccato burst of pinging buttons he ripped the blouse apart. Through blurry eyes I could start to see again. The floor was littered with empty containers; the cooking oil bottle, an empty flour bag, tins and squeezy bottles. Weighing heavily in my lap was a sea of egg yolk, treacle and god knows what else.
‘Jules’…he paused. ‘You are one filthy fucking pig. A wardrobe full of lovely clothes and you choose to look like this!’
The jacket and blouse were pulled to the sides of my shoulders and warm hands ferreted into my bra to pull my jammy breasts out.
‘What would your boss think ehh’?
A burst of flash exploded in my face followed by the whir of our nasty little Polaroid camera. The stamp addressed envelope he waved in front of me had my boss’s name on it. It was marked ‘Private and confidential.’ He put the photo inside.
‘Maybe he’ll not recognise you?’
The taunting, teasing little bastard! At every turn he had something else to humiliate me with.
Off came my jacket. He stood on the lining, tore the arm off, then ripped it right up the back.
‘I didn’t like it anyway’ he said. ‘You always had crap dress sense.’
I refused to look him in the eye. It might give away how fucking turned on I was!
‘Kneel for me little piggy!’ he commanded.
I slid off the chair onto my knees and he sat astride my back facing my bottom. Up came my skirt.
‘It’s time to play guess the filling Jules’ he teased.
It could have been anything. It was wet, it was lumpy and it oozed over my bum and pooled in the gusset of my knickers like a crude oil slick.
‘Baked beans maybe’ I said.
‘Wrong! Spaghetti hoops’ he cried.
The wedgie for failure nearly blew my mind. Sodden, pasta packed panties jamming against my clit had me weak at the knees. This just wasn’t right!
Second time round there was nothing oozing over my bum, no plop of slop into the gusset, just the sensation of solid chunks dropping into the cotton clad morass. This time, with knickers and tights pulled back into place it was his fingers massaging the knicker-load into my cunt that blew my brain. It flipped me. An overwhelming orgasmic blast hit me. He knew I was coming. Then the sick shit rolled the empty tin in front of me.
I read the label straight off: ‘Whiskas…sardines and trout in jelly.’
You! You!’ I could barely spit the words out.
The sick twat had humiliated me and brought me to orgasm with cat food! He was pissing himself with laughter, then without warning, he dug his nails into my tights and tore them up my legs before landing me with another pussy-splitting wedgie.
The game was over. We were both crying with laughter now. He couldn’t keep up the torturers façade any longer. I had him on the floor and ground my filthy little fanny into his nose and mouth. His cock was waving round like an angry cutlass so I wanked his shaft with a fist full of slop, and sat on him until he was buried ball-deep in my pussy. It was the rudest, filthiest fuck ever.
When we had finished, and his tired dick slipped out of me in a gush of spunk and slosh, I peeled off the remains of my knickers and poked them up his bottom with my little finger. It was an incredibly kinky, spur of the moment thing to do. He just lay there and took it, flinching occasionally as my finger probed indelicately. He knew very well what he’d just done to me and how much he’d enjoyed it. A pair of his wife’s filthy knickers up the arse was a small price to pay!
