Kinky Roommate Adventures Pt. 03

As if on cue, Mitch approaches again and, like before, lightly pinches my nipple with his thumb and forefinger—only this time he does it simultaneously to both nipples. With my arms pulled behind my back, my nipples are basically begging for attention, and my roommate gives it with gusto. For the next 5 or so minutes, Mitch relentlessly tweaks, teases, pulls and torments my large, exposed nipples with a ruthlessness that has me squirming, moaning, and begging before long. He really has read my erotica, because he plays with my body in just the right ways to turn me on and drive me crazy. The bulge in my thong becomes painful.

At some point during this torment, I wonder what I must look like from a 3rd person perspective right now. An image of my slender, naked body, bound upright, squirming and struggling in a pointless attempt to protect my large, sensitive nipples from this sensuous attack, floats across my mind. My eyes must be full of helpless pleasure and pitiful begging, because I'm trying as best I can to convince my new captor to have mercy.

Finally, he relents. I'm breathing hard and still moaning softly. My body feels all tingly and alive with electricity.

"You are such a slut," Mitch asserts, sticking a finger into my belly button and digging around, making me moan and squirm anew. "You are going to be so much fun! But first things first." Mitch goes to his bag, grabs something small, and walks back over to me. In a quick, deft motion he slips a blindfold over my head and my vision goes black.

"There. Now hang tight while I do my laundry."

"Rrnnngmmn Gungmrmphff!"

"Complain all you like," Mitch responds. "You're the one who's tied up."

I hear his retreating footsteps down the hall. Instinctively, I start to struggle against the ropes and cuffs holding me bound to the heater pipe. It's absolutely no use. I'm gonna be tied up here until my roommate decides what to do with me next. That realization sinks in like a lead weight. Other than listening for sound cues, I have no way of knowing what's happening. My lack of sight serves to heighten the feel of my bare skin, which doesn't help because I still recall the feel of Mitch's fingers on my nipples. I'm a captive in my own apartment and no one is coming to rescue me.

What the hell is he planning to do with me? And when is he going to let me go?

********************************

The minutes drag on. I have no idea how long it's been since I heard the apartment door close behind my roommate (I presume) on his way down to the basement, where the laundry machines are located. But it feels like a long time. Without sight, it's impossible to detect the passage of time in any objective sense, and without the ability to move, I have nothing to take my mind off my predicament. I'm hyper present and aware, every nerve reporting in constantly. It crosses my mind that this is such an unusual experience because I probably never keep my attention on my body for more than a second or two at a time during my everyday life. Most days, I'm thinking about my research, which consists of half computer coding and half applied mathematics. Not very body related stuff, for sure. Now, though, I've got nothing but my body to think of, and it's feeling pretty vulnerable.

More time passes. It starts getting tiring standing in this same position for minute after minute. I try to shift my weight around, but my ankles are tightly bound to the pole. I struggle and shift and squirm, letting out grunts and moans of frustration as I do, but it's no use: I'm tightly bound to this pole.

The ball gag in my mouth is starting to make my jaw ache. Though I tried valiantly to stop it, a thin trail of saliva has started leaking down my chin and drips occasionally onto my bare chest.

Finally, I hear the door open and close. A sudden, fierce debate rages in my head:

Make some sound! Get his attention!

Why?! That's so humiliating!

Because we're tied up, you idiot! We've spent the past who-knows-how-long trying to get free and it didn't work. Our only hope is for our captor to untie us.

You want me to beg our roommate to untie us like some helpless little slut?!

What's the alternative, wise guy?

... Stand here silently like it's no big deal. Maybe he'll get bored and let us go. Maybe he's not that into having his roommate naked and tied up after all, and it's quickly getting awkward for him.

Or maybe he's a vindictive, controlling, son of a bitch who enjoys hazing as much as his frat-boy friends.

Well I'm not in support of just starting begging all of a sudden. We're gagged, remember? Just imagine for a second how humiliating that would come across! Guys like Mitch aren't going to take pity on us; they're more likely to be encouraged and inspired by it keep us tied up even longer and do even more humiliating stuff to us.

We still don't even know what Mitch is like. We have no idea what motivates him...

The end result is a compromise. I stay silent while Mitch is at the other end of the apartment, but when I hear him coming down the hall (perhaps to use the bathroom? Or perhaps to pay me a visit?) I begin struggling against the ropes and attempt to talk—not moan or beg, mind you, just speak. I realize the difference is one of tone, not substance, but hey—feels like a big difference to me, tied to the heating pipe.

"Grrnngmm rawnngmmphf mrmph wannngff?"

"I'm sorry, James," Mitch says, sounding faux-apologetic. "I can't understand you."

I feel a finger begin to trace idle patterns across my naked body. His taunts and subtle touch reawaken my subsiding erection. I squirm some more and engage in a bit more gagged talk, attempting to convey, as best I can, that I want to be untied but that I'm not desperate. I'm still hoping we can pass this off as a fun little prank and leave it at that.

"I bet you're asking to be untied. Well, you can forget about that, James. You flaunted your body for two weeks, and I've only gotten started returning the favor."

A deep something churns in my gut. So I now know he's not fucking around. No more playing it off as a fun little prank. I've been captured for probably over an hour now, and if Mitch is just getting started then I'm in for the long haul. Part of me panics at his mention of two weeks. He can't be thinking of fucking with me for that long, can he?

A finger lightly takes hold of my right nipple; I moan lightly and my erection gets harder.

The touch leaves my nipple (I still can't see anything) and I hear Mitch retreat down the hall to the kitchen. A drawer opens, then shuts. Mitch's footsteps lead back to the living room.

A hand cups the bulge of my thong.

"Mrmmngg!"

I feel a second hand reach around and caress my ass.

"Nnngg rrnngmph."

The hand on my crotch starts rubbing. With how tight my penis is against the cloth of my thong, this feels really good, and intense. I feel my body instinctively lean into it. The hand on my ass squeezes my left cheek and pulls it away from my right, allowing the strap of my thong to press tighter against my anus. The fact that all of these pleasurable sensations from intimate parts of my body are being caused by my roommate makes them even more intense and vulnerable feeling. I know there's nothing I can do about it. I'm ball gagged, so conversation is out. And I've spent the past hour or so reminding myself how helpless my body is.

"I know how much you're loving this," Mitch says. "The erotica you write is chalk full of stuff like this. Once I read the piece you left open on your laptop for me, I searched the web and found your usernames on the sites where you post your kinky shit."

I feel so exposed, and not just physically. He has found and read all of my erotica! He knows everything I'm into. And yes, being held captive and naked by my roommate is a scenario right out of my erotic fantasies. I'm pretty sure I've written a piece or two about that very thing. No wonder everything that's happened since this morning has been (for the exhibitionist and the captive, at least) a kind of wet dream.

He planned this whole capture on the basis of my own writing. That's both incredibly humiliating and totally hot.

"My point is," Mitch continues, in a very matter-of-fact tone of voice, "we both really enjoy what I'm doing to you, so don't expect it to end anytime soon."

The caressing of my crotch and the groping of my ass stop, then I feel a couple of Mitch's fingers slip under my thong strap halfway between my bulge and my ass. I feel the strap pull away from my skin and a small jolt of helplessness and uncertainty runs through me. A second later, I feel cold metal against my skin where the thong strap had been and I know what's happening just as I hear the sound of scissors cutting through fabric.

"Hrrnnnggmn!! Hrrmph!"

The strap gives way and I feel the tension rearrange itself across my hips. My cock nearly bursts out of its cloth prison. A moment later, the cold metal touches my skin on the opposite side of my crotch, then I feel my roommate peel the thong away entirely. I can't see what's going on, but I feel my cock and balls intensely, free and unrestrained, caressed by only the warm, morning air of my apartment.

Well, for a moment. Because a few seconds later I feel Mitch's hand close gently around my shaft. I let out a loud moan of helpless pleasure and protest, though the ratio definitely favors "pleasure." Besides, I've started to resign myself to the fact that my roommate is not going to listen to any of my protests, so I may as well focus on the pleasure.

I feel Mitch's hand move up and down my penis, which feels as erect as it has ever been. Despite the delightful pleasure, a part of my mind takes stock of the situation. I'm ball gagged, blindfolded, tied to a pole, totally naked, very erect, and being jacked off—by my roommate, whom I met two weeks ago, and with whom I have barely spoken. What's more, I woke up this morning free as a bird, while now... I don't know what's going on, but I already feel like some kind of possession of Mitch's, like some kind of slutty slave.

The world sure is strange, this part of me muses, oddly detached from the situation as my body writhes and the rest of me moans in pleasure and embarrassment and Mitch continues to stroke my penis. This particular voice is quickly lost, however, in a mounting sea of pleasure that jealously demands all of my attention.

I know this sensation well, the slow fire burning in my shaft, slowly expanding and swelling outwards from tip to base, then filling my whole body. My mind begins to shut down, overwhelmed by this overpowering sensory experience. But before it does, an alarm starts to go off at the back of my mind, manifesting as a series of panicked thoughts firing in rapid succession.

Oh, fuck, this is so embarrassing! My roommate is going to see me cum! I've got to resist the urge!

My ROOMMATE is making me cum! I'm so humiliated, but there's nothing I can do!

I'm going to jizz all over the floor! It's going to make a huge mess!

I need to warn Mitch so I don't squirt semen all over him. Dear goddess, that's the most humiliating thought I've probably ever had. But trying to communicate to him—through this ball gag—that I'm about to ejaculate is maybe even more embarrassing!

The thoughts just keep coming, but the two that survive the rising tide of pleasure that obliterates all else before it are that I need to warn my roommate that I'm about to cum and that I am a helpless, dirty little slut. Mitch's hand continues to slide up and down my shaft, his fingers working up my frenulum to caress the head of my penis as I moan louder and in more rapid bursts, desperately indicating the reaction surging through my body over which I have lost control.

Mitch's hand doesn't stop, and a few seconds later the climax crashes over me. I feel hot liquid spewing from my penis as waves of pleasure wrack my body. Mitch slows down but keeps working. I shudder multiple times from his touch on my now very sensitive member. My moans slow and turn to sighs, my breathing still elevated. I feel weak in the knees, but I can't sit down—I'm still tied to the heating pipe, remember?

"Well aren't you a filthy little slut?" Mitch's voice is teasing and mocking, but I also feel a strong sense of control in his tone and words. "Look at the mess you just made."

I can't see a thing, but I don't need to—my mind fills in the blanks in my vision: I'm completely naked, blindfolded, bound and gagged to a pole in the corner of my living room, my penis dripping semen, jizz all over the floor in a line in front of me. A part of me hopes I didn't hit any of the furniture, or the rug. I'm feeling an overwhelming shame and humiliation.

My roommate just watched me ejaculate all over the floor, an orgasm he forced me to have.

I can't even clean myself up, or the floor. I struggle for a second, mostly on reflex, and the clink of the handcuffs against the metal pipe rings out into the silence.

"You want to be free, huh? Well guess what? You're my little slave now, and this is just the beginning."

An involuntary, moaning whimper escapes me as my breathing slows and I stand there, utterly naked and helpless. I wonder what's coming next, but finally know for certain that my world has just changed dramatically.

It's now an objective fact: over the course of the morning I have become my new roommate's slave.