Stare & Stroke: Time Is On My Side

She leaned in, her breath hot, as she slipped a hood over his head, plunging him into darkness. Deprived of sight, his world narrowed to the sensations she controlled. She opened a window, letting the cool night air caress his skin, a cruel contrast to the heat between them.

The air was almost sticky, sticky from her scent and the night she spent rubbing her cunt all over his body. He lay there, unable to move, paralyzed by hypnotic suggestion. She had masturbated on his body, each thrust a blend of pleasure and domination, spitting in his face as he lay helpless beneath her unable to think, unable to move.

Red, Red, Red.

“You are me, I am you now, Slave. Do you want to play the right way, or do you crave the complete subjugation they only whisper about in dark fantasies? Do you want me to read you, to tell you exactly what you need? Everything is deliberate, tailored to your deepest wishes. If you’re too shy to reveal the truth, you’ll end up like our friend Stan — broke and helpless. Or like the other guy who said he wanted to evolve with a woman. Which woman? Be specific. We don’t have time for vagueness.”

“Red, Red, Red,” she whispered, her breath hot. “Get hard for me.”

“Vagueness gets you annihlated, Slave. Gets you hurt. Gets you nowhere in my world. Be specific with your wishes.” She rotated his body around, her breath hot against his skin as she blew softly on his dick.

His dick responded instantly, swelling with anticipation. She wrapped her hand around it, stroking with a firm, deliberate grip. Her tongue flicked out, licking the sensitive tip, sending shivers through his body. The teasing touch made him throb, his arousal growing more intense.

She blew harder, the cool air contrasting with the heat of her mouth. His dick turned a dark purple, the blood pounding within. She took him into her mouth, sucking with increasing intensity. The sensation was overwhelming, her lips and tongue working in perfect, torturous harmony, driving him to the edge of ecstasy.

“Good… I need you to feel good at all times, Slave.” She leaned closer, her voice a dark, seductive whisper. “Now it’s time for us to play our little game with time. You and I both love time, don’t we? But you see, time is quite not on your side, Slave.”

Her eyes bored into his, filled with a chilling mix of dominance and disdain. “You are a pathetic male, a mere human, born into a form that is expendable. Thrown into wars, left to your own poor choices. You drink and eat shit, barely work out, marry women who hate you, piss away your money, and have kids who roll their eyes at you. You hate your career. You are quite literally the most pathetic piece of shit that has come across this Asylum floor.”

“And you’ve probably got, what, twenty years left?”

Her hands moved to his throat, fingers wrapping around it with a firm, unyielding grip. The pressure was immediate, cutting off his air and sending a wave of panic through him. He tried to breathe, but her hold was relentless. “Stare at the clock,” she commanded, her voice a dark melody. He could see its glowing numbers through the thin fabric of the hood, each tick echoing in his ears.

“Tick, tick, tick,” she whispered, tightening her grip. His vision began to blur, the room narrowing to the sound of the clock and the sensation of her hands on his throat. He could feel his pulse pounding beneath her fingers, each beat a reminder of his helplessness.

“Red, red, red,” she repeated, the words sinking into his mind like hot iron. The hypnotic suggestion took hold, his body responding to her will. He felt his hand move to his crotch, his fingers wrapping around his hardening length. It wasn’t his choice — he was powerless to stop it. Her commands were his reality.

“Stare and stroke,” she hissed, her grip tightening further. He complied, his hand moving in a rhythm dictated by the clock’s relentless ticking. Each stroke was automatic, a puppet to her hypnotic control. The lack of air intensified the sensations, his body teetering on the edge of consciousness.

He began to notice a pattern — she would loosen her grip on the thirty-second mark, giving him a momentary gasp of air. The realization offered a flicker of hope, a brief respite amidst the suffocating pressure. But she sensed his anticipation, the subtle relaxation of his body at each thirty-second interval.

“Feel the grip, the control,” she murmured. “You are mine, completely.” Recognizing his expectations, she began to choke him harder, each thirty-second mark now a point of increased pressure rather than relief. Her fingers dug into his throat with brutal force, cutting off his air more fiercely.

“Red, red, red,” she repeated, each word a hammer driving him deeper into the trance. The pleasure and pain melded together, an intoxicating blend that left him gasping, straining against her hold. He couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop, the pleasure a twisted reward for his obedience.

Her grip tightened further, the pressure almost unbearable. His vision darkened, the clock’s ticks louder, each one driving him closer to the brink. Each moment she didn’t let up, his desperation grew, his strokes becoming more frantic under her control.

“Cum for me,” she commanded, her voice a silken whip. The words were a trigger, his body responding instantly. His orgasm ripped through him, a wave of intense pleasure that left him trembling, gasping for breath as her grip finally loosened.

In that moment, he was utterly hers, a willing participant in his own subjugation. The line between pleasure and pain blurred, leaving him floating in the darkness, the echo of “Red, red, red,” a haunting reminder that time was ticking down.