Revenge Bi Femme

Gretchen’s Vengeance-3

Ah, Goddess, you’ve got to…you got to…gotta…ahhhh…ahhhh…AHHHHHHHHH!

As soon as I finish shuddering and spouting the throttling stops too; the crushing weight on my larynx and butt is relieved. Whooping for air, groaning in super-orgasmic aftermath, I gradually blink away an impenetrable smear of tears. My spinning head settles enough for me to see Gretchen lying rolled up on her shoulder blades. Fabulous ass in the air, she holds her legs folded close as she tries to maximize the chances of conceiving. No sense letting even my clearly substandard seed just trickle out messily…

Holy owner, I did it though!

I actually ejaculated inside of a person, or from anything other than Biblically-forbidden onanism! After a series of painfully hacking coughs I clear my abused throat enough to meekly speak up. Already my bloody puffy lips make my hoarse voice lisp.

“See my queenly deity? I knew this would work for us. Thank you so much for my birthday present, my wonderful beloved. That was undoubtedly the highlight of my entire life. Did you happen to climax too, beautiful? Please say that you did!”

Predictably Gretchen devastates me emotionally.

“You got to be f*****g joking! Did you hear any ecstatic screaming? Did that sound like anything other than enraged resentment and the exaltation of vindictive domination to you? I felt like I was f*****g some sinful dyke bodybuilder’s steroid-engorged c******s. It’s a good thing I finally decided to go ahead and shave my bush for this or I wouldn’t have felt even that. From now on you must do that too – no pubic hair for either of us. Every millimeter counts with you.”

“Yes Goddess Gretchen. I’m super sorry, my adored deity. I only want to see you as wondrously happy as you deserve to be. If I wasn’t so effectively tied up, I’d make you some spiked hot cocoa and rub your feet until you fell asleep – or do anything else you might request to show my infinite devotion and keenest appreciation for your recent pleasing treatment of me.”

“Are you asking to be untied already?”

Gretchen continues to rock gently back and forth, then side to side as she encourages my sperm to creep ever deeper. Sensing pressure mines, I tread oh-so gently.

“Not at all. I dare ask nothing of you my goddess, except that you take every iota of pleasure you can from this shabbily-established marriage. Let your guilty subject bear the cost.”

“So be it then, b***h!” Goddess Gretchen just oozes cruelty. “In that case, I believe it amuses me to leave you tied up for the entire night. On the other hand, I also want this bed to myself. Since you’ve proven clueless, both with your lying tongue and that littler-than-a-pinkie p***s, it’s time I tried the vibrating variety I just bought online.

“You can listen to me sinning through a closed damn door. And tonight you can spend hogtied on my wardrobe floor. Perhaps meditating on your myriad failures through the lonely cold hours of pensive penance will prove spiritually beneficial. And you’ll never have to wonder again what it sounds like when I climax. What do think about that, my useless b-and-d freak?”

“I think Goddess Gretchen knows best. I would never dare to gainsay her.”

Ten minutes later I’m free of the bed but far more elaborately trussed up by those drapery cords. Upper body tightly harnessed and head wrenched back, wrists and ankles all lashed up behind me, my entire spine acutely arched, at least my contortion keeps me off my still horribly-sore hindquarters. Underwear gag stuffed back in place, a thick black scarf bound above this from nose to brow, I suddenly feel the most exquisitely pinching agony in my most pathetic condemned appendage. Goddess Gretchen decrees sternly out of the blindfolded blackness.

“I’d better f*****g find that big plastic hair clip still attached to your infant-d**k in the morning, sissy. All the time I’m sinning to get the satisfaction your inadequacy denies me, you and Mister Measly in particular should be suffering severely in recompense. Is that not justice?”

Somehow I nod affirmation despite the radical extension of my neck.

“I’m glad you agree. Have a bad night then, birthday boy.” Sexy high heels click across the hardwood. “I’ll see you when I can see you without wanting to puke all over you.”

Gretchen closes the door, locking me in there helpless and bereft.

***

And thus justice continues to be done. As the previous evening provided the highlight of my life, morning finds me in entirely unprecedented perdition.

Blessed be my goddess, but oh the night’s punishments have been both extreme and legion!

First came being forced to listen to Gretchen m**********g so ostentatiously less than ten feet away in the adjoining bedchamber. “Oh, you’re so huge; oh that’s so great; oh I can feel every hot hard inch of you! Unlike my useless husband you can actually reach my g-spot!”

Whatever the f**k that is. Hearing her talk to her vibrator like it was alive, or even another guy was eviscerating beyond belief – especially while my own crushed nubbin strained insanely to erect again despite being clamped into its compensatory agony. Listening to Miss Baptist moan and shriek out climax after incredible climax for what must have been well over an hour of shedding silly religious inhibitions was even more emasculating. Imagine being able to provide such ecstasy to such a spectacular deity! If I could just make her come like that even once, I’d feel more validated and proud of myself than if I was acclaimed the King of the Universe.

After its rightful ruler Goddess Gretchen retired however, other horrors quickly took over. Without the distraction of my wife throwing me over for a vibrator, physical travails began overruling emotional ones.

My arched back screamed and my ass still sang of its introductory paddling. My inflamed lips and cheeks throbbed on; swallowing hurt my throat. The burns on my belly and t**s flamed unceasingly (though nothing like the bigger one on my tongue, thanks to that gag and an ever-drier mouth), and though my pinched p***s eventually went numb, if I waggled or bumped (or rolled over!) its cruelly toothed clamp it would wake up shrieking immediately.

Regardless, being surrounding by my goddess’ clothes and shoes, enveloped by her smell, reminded me to follow orders. I was in there to use the dark, miserable hours to obsess on my many frauds and failings. Dwelling despairingly on these justified my suffering, helping me to cope and even firm my resolve to serve and worship my beloved deity unstintingly for eternity if that was what it took to be worthy of her. Still this became ever more difficult as the agonies of my multitudinous wounds grew and accumulated – not to mention those of my bindings. Even beyond the unrelenting stress on my bowed spine, popping torso sockets and wrenched-back limbs, my hogtying presented the most horrific of challenges.

I’d always wanted to be put (and even habitually kept) in the strictest of sexually suggestive bondage. Talk about a naïve teen! Extremities growing slowly numb were the least of the unexpected distresses.

Endless enforced contortion led to excruciating muscle cramps, while the hard cold floor underneath me was so unforgiving it forced endless rolling about and shifting position despite this constantly aggravating my clamped failing. Occasionally irrational attacks of panic gripped me too, so that despite my best intentions I wrestled and writhed mindlessly until exhausted. Then it was all I could do not to give up and shriek pleadingly for release.

Of course the noisome underwear stuffed and bound into my mouth would have kept me from disturbing Gretchen. Yet I wasn’t taking the least chance of that. Though she’ll never know how heroically I struggled for her (and not with her too-damn-expert knots), a peaceful night’s respite was the very least I owed her for so generously accepting and accommodating my admittedly twisted fetish. Nevertheless, I would be mendacious again not to admit that as the lonely hours drew so torturously out I began to suffer some downright heretical doubts.

Who couldn’t help but worry whether all their efforts would be ultimately worth it? Will I ever be able to truly satisfy such an exceeding superior female? Will she ever again deign to show me any honest affection? Or are my sins so irredeemable that her eternal contempt is deserved? Worse, as stealthy, skittering sounds from without raised paranoid hackles on the punctured back of my traps, I even began to wonder if any woman could be worth so much unmitigated misery. How quickly we forget that body-wracking ejaculation, the shapes, oh the shapes her beasts could take and even the unreasoning fealty that overwhelms me at being caught in her punishing clutches, utterly helpless against the infinite potency of her s****l presence…

And so emotional torments fought back against the simply physical, competing to see which could most effectively keep me sleepless. Compelling as wrestling with my obsession could be though, simple, banal bodily processes inevitably ensured that physical considerations would eventually carry the day simply by crowding out everything else.

I hadn’t had a chance to pee since just before dinner.

Blindfolded in a benighted wardrobe, I have no idea what time I was locked in, much less when it was that the pressure in my midsection went from noticeable to uncomfortable. I just know that it began to really hurt me long before I heard the first muted twittering of birds. Eventually even the excruciation in my spinal column (a red-hot knife seemed to be gouging between each and every vertebra) was superseded by that ever-increasing abdominal screaming.

Determined not to offend my goddess by soiling her wardrobe floor, all I could do was grit my teeth and sweat it out. Dancing to hold it in was obviously not an option. Soon I could no longer even roll around or wriggle about. To this minute, the slightest movement still not only triggers great glassy bladder cramps, it waggles the big plastic hair clamp still so cruelly pinching off my offensively puny p***s. How Mr. Measly shrieks!

Even groaning quickly became a luxury I could no longer afford. Every bit of my being eventually became grimly focused on just two things: holding my urine in and listening desperately, first for the slightest indication of Gretchen waking, and now that she finally has, for any clues to understanding her maddeningly languid movements.

Won’t this dreadful suspense/distress ever end? Bad enough that it gets worse by the second. By the time I hear the bedsprings sing and her tread padding gently across the master suite to the bathroom, the sounds of Gretchen tinkling into the toilet, flushing the bowl and running the faucet afterward are nearly enough to break me. Still I have to bite that gag and bide my time, holding to hope while she leisurely brushes and flosses her teeth. Please tell me she can see me without puking on me now! If she steps into the shower (or runs a slow bath!) I’ll never make it.

Thank you Goddess a thousand times!

Finally I hear her bare feet squeaking on the hardwood, she’s coming! When the lock clicks and the wardrobe door opens I’m ready to sign my soul over to her on the instant. Perhaps understanding this, Gretchen slyly delays untying me. First she merely slips off the blindfold and pulls out the gag. Immediately I burst into devoted blubbering.

“Thank you so much, my divine Goddess Gretchen! Please beloved, I need to pee!”

Somberly she shakes her head at me!

“I’m incredibly disappointed in you, Harold. Aren’t you going to thank me for such a wonderful birthday yesterday, bid me a polite good morning and ask me how I enjoyed my repose? I suppose Mister Self-centered’s next words will be to claim he’s too tired and all lamed up to do his share of work around the house today.”

“Of course not, gorgeous! I’m so abysmally sorry!” Hastily I scramble to amend my manners. “I was going to offer to do all of your share of today’s chores too, in gratitude for the best – and necessarily worst – night of my life! Then I was going to beg-beg-beg that we repeat the entire experience with extreme expedience.”