The Parlor of Sighs Pt. 03

She leaned down and gave my aching cock a single flick of her tongue.

And I felt it.

The unmistakable, cool scrape of metal.

A tongue piercing.

The tongue that left marks.

My body jolted.

I knew that tantalizing sensation too well -- I'd had eager sluts with pierced tongues suck me off before. The feeling always drove me wild.

I'd hold their heads too long, drive them to the edge of fatigue, dictating exactly how that barbell should worship my cock.

I even talked some girlfriends into it -- made them think it would make them prettier, edgier. But really, it was always for me.

And finishing on a pierced tongue? Pure visual bliss...

But this was different.

She had the piercing. She clearly knew exactly how to use it.

And yet... she chose not to.

That single, fleeting touch wasn't a gift or mercy.

It was cruelty. It was a punishment.

A message.

Just one cold stroke of metal dragged across my slit -- not enough to satisfy, just enough to torment.

A promise denied.

A devastating reminder of what she refused to give me.

I groaned through the soaked panties stuffed in my mouth.

She heard it. Smiled. Triumphant.

My cock spasmed, frustration mutating into something darker: obsession.

Then she flicked it once again.

Just another brief, tantalizing swipe across.

I gasped into the damp fabric clenched between my teeth, my hips jerking instinctively.

It wasn't just the contact -- it was the feel of it.

Yes, her tongue was pierced alright, but not like the others I'd known.

Not with the typical rounded barbell designed for a man's pleasure, made to slide and press in just the right way while sucking cock.

No -- this one was different.

Sharp. Angular.

Edged just enough to scrape rather than soothe.

A wicked glint of steel that felt more like a weapon than an accessory.

She didn't pierce her tongue to enhance blowjobs.

She did it to brand men. To control. To own.

It was unapologetic, intimidating -- and thus even more arousing.

And I now understood what she meant when she warned me her tongue leaves marks.

And in that instant, I wanted nothing more than to beg for the thing she refused to give.

I moaned hard into the panties, frustration boiling over.

And she just smiled, triumphant, knowing exactly what that second flick had done to me.

She leaned forward, and her hands slid lower -- slow, precise, merciless.

The rings on her thumbs and pointer fingers caught the low light as they moved -- cold flashes of metal that felt less like jewelry now and more like surgical tools, or branding irons poised to claim flesh.

"You noticed them earlier, didn't you?" she murmured without needing an answer.

"Men always do. Especially men like you."

She let the rings glide across my skin, just enough to make me shiver.

"They all think they're just decoration. Some kinky little fashion statement. But they're not."

She drew a tight circle just beneath my navel with one glinting ring tip, then tapped my inner thigh with the other -- a cold kiss of metal, deceptively casual.

"They're tools," she whispered.

"These fingers know pressure points, denial paths... and exactly how to make a man twitch, ache, and beg -- without ever letting him cum."

I moaned and finally had to swallow -- the thick glob that had been slowly accumulating for what felt like ages, a warm, vile mix of my own saliva and everything she'd steeped into that strip of fabric jammed between my teeth.

She watched me do it, smirking.

"Enjoying the appetizer?" she murmured.

"Plenty more to come, boy."

She gripped the base of my cock -- expertly, cruelly -- and a thick bead of precum surged from the tip. She smirked, pleased.

"Oooh... look at that," she purred. "Already wet -- like the pussy of those blonde sluts you used to fuck after a few of your silly little compliments at the bar."

Her thumb swept the glistening droplet, slow and deliberate.

Then -- with practiced precision -- she reached down and peeled the soaked black panties from my mouth, just briefly.

I gasped, the air sharp in my throat.

"But I know better how to use your little precum pearls..." she whispered.

She pressed her glistening thumb to my lips -- then slid it past them, into my mouth.

"Taste your desire, white boy. Enjoy what your eager blondes used to lick and swallow while they worshipped your cock."

I moaned, licking her thumb clean.

"Mmm. You do like that, don't you?" she cooed.

"Salty. Spicy. And tastes like control." Her voice dripped with wicked amusement.

She pushed her thumb in deeper -- slow, firm, deliberate.

"Now lick the ring, white boy. I know it's driving you insane."

I obeyed, tongue tracing the crease of her knuckle, tasting myself, humiliated, yet aroused beyond reason.

Finally, she slid her thumb free with a soft pop and swiftly stuffed the soaked panties back between my lips.

"But this was also just another taste -- another sign of what's yet to come. And I mean literally. You'll be tasting far more tonight. Things you've never dared to taste before. And yes, white boy..."

She leaned in, her voice dropping to a dark purr.

"You will go crazy as a consequence."

Satisfied with her little prelude, she finally took hold of my cock -- just between her thumb and pointer finger, nothing more -- and began a slow, mechanical, merciless motion.

Cold. Clinical. Precise.

Just enough to stir madness beneath my skin.

Then, without warning, her real game began.

With every cruel, deliberate stroke, she yanked the chain.

Sharp bursts of pain lanced through my chest, twisted down to my nipples, merging with the unbearable tease on my cock.

I groaned muffled into the soaked panties, writhing helplessly in my bonds.

Her grip stayed icy, her motions swift and uncaring.

Dehumanizing.

With each pass, she dragged those ringed fingers with cruel intent over the most sensitive spots, torturing my suffering cock with ruthless precision.

"This is what you needed, isn't it?" she whispered. "A real woman with rings on fingers that break men."

As she edged me with those cruel fingers, she leaned in, tongue darting close -- so close I could feel the heat of her mouth again.

"I could end this right now," she murmured. "Drag this piercing along the underside of your cock until you scream and cum like a ruined animal."

Then, a wicked smirk. "But I won't. You don't deserve it yet."

"You know why I pierced my tongue like this?" she asked, dragging it slowly over one of my nipple clamps, the cool metal teasing my raw skin.

"Because every man who feels it remembers. Every man I break dreams of it first."

Her piercing trailed slowly down my chest, just above the taut chain biting into my nipples.

"It's not for blowjobs," she whispered. "It's a collar. For you."

Then, with a wicked smirk: "And yes... it can deliver a mind-shattering blowjob -- but only to the chosen. The deserving. And you're not there yet."

All the while, she kept stroking -- slow, mechanical, merciless -- just thumb and pointer finger. Her rings scraped lightly with every pass, edging me closer and closer to the brink, only to stop each time my hips twitched or my breath hitched.

"No... not yet," she whispered, again and again. "You don't get to decide."

Each time, I bucked helplessly, panting through the soaked fabric in my mouth, my cock straining in agony. She waited... watching me calm, soften slightly... then began again.

Again. And again.

Her mouth never returned.

Her hand stayed clinical, detached, merciless.

Her eyes -- ruthless.

And yet, the pleasure was unbearable.

The denial, even worse.

"Submit, white boy," she said calmly, watching me strain against the silk ropes.

"Stop trying to control the outcome. You have no say. Let go..."

It must've been the fifth or sixth cycle -- stroking, stopping, waiting.

And then she felt it: that final, desperate betrayal of my body -- a subtle jolt, the tensing shiver that meant the final edge was here.

And just like that --

She stopped.

Pulled away from my twitching, purple cock with surgical detachment.

No release.

No relief.

Just the maddening ache of almost.

She leaned in close, lips brushing my cheek, voice a razor-thin whisper: "That? That was your sweet orgasm... waving goodbye."

I groaned.

And then she delivered it --

SNAP

The final, savage, devastating yank of the chain.

And this time, it wasn't just a tug.

She ripped the clamps from my nipples -- violently, mercilessly -- unleashing a searing, blinding bolt of white-hot pain exploding across my chest and straight into my skull.

I clenched my teeth, inhaling the drenched fabric, swallowing another warm glob of the musky cocktail.

My back arched.

My body convulsed.

My brain short-circuited.

A ruined release surged against my will -- brutal, involuntary, unstoppable.

I knew what it meant but I'd never had a ruined orgasm before -- only occasionally stumbled on it in shadowy corners of online forums, whispered like a dirty secret no self-respecting man would admit.

Among the jocks at the watercooler, it was a joke, a curse reserved for sluts who couldn't time things right and ended up ruining their man's pleasure. It was always her fault.

Me? I had never let any girl, no matter how hot, come close to ruining me.

On top of my careful training, I had a nose for chicks who truly knew how to please their men -- I could read it in their eyes, their faces, their body language. They were always well behaved, experienced, putting my pleasure first and keeping their own needs secondary.

My powerful, full-bodied ejaculations were my holy grail -- the sole reason I invested time in foreplay, the reason I fucked.

Anything less than complete, unchallenged release was a betrayal to my cock's honor.

And if some careless girl had ever dared to accidentally ruin me -- which never happened, thanks to my sharp instincts and practiced training -- she'd have felt my wrath.

I'd have torn her down, never looked back, and warned every jock in town to steer clear of her.

This ruined release was a violation of everything I'd built myself around.

And now, for the very first time, I was trapped, helpless, gasping into someone's drenched panties as I was experiencing it.

I bucked in sheer panic that ingnited like fire.

Not like this. Not like this! I screamed silently inside.

I fought it -- hard.

I tried to slow my breath.

Tried to think of anything else.

I contracted my Kegel muscle, the way I'd trained myself.

Every trick I knew -- every last mental escape hatch I built over the years -- I threw at the edge...

Just to keep from falling.

But her timing was flawless.

It was too late.

I roared into her soaked panties.

AND CAME.

Hard.

Twitching.

Broken.

Ruined

No pleasure.

No satisfaction.

No relief.

Just massively disappointing defeat.

Thick ropes of what I'd convinced myself was sacred seed -- carefully and obediently edged, denied, and hoarded for over a week for a glorious eruption into some tight pussy, eager throat, or at worst, across some bimbo's big tits -- instead spilled uselessly and shamelessly over my own body in wild, erratic spasms.

Streaks of jizz painted my abs, my chest... one massive shot landing across my chin, lips, and cheek.

I was gasping her cunt's scent through the fabric, chest heaving, mind spinning.

She hovered above me -- arms folded, gaze steady -- watching me unravel like so many proud men before me. Her eyes glinted with quiet, practiced satisfaction.

The damage done.

Then, finally, without a word, she reached down and peeled the soaked panties from my mouth.

I gasped for clean air.

Looked at my body.

I used to paint faces and tits like this.

Now I wear the warm, sticky stain of my own humiliation.

"Nice shot," she said coolly. "I see you saved your load for days... just to waste it for me."

She paused -- let me feel the weight of it.

Then her voice dropped -- calm, commanding, final:

"LICK IT."