Don't Cum

The crop vacillated its purposeful brushes along Alasdair's throbbing cock; Martina's driven resolve centred on achieving the climax of the self-proclaimed top dog. With a raised chin and pressed lips, she manipulated his shaft, obliging herself of disannulling his laddish manhood. To think, the despair such a strong manly man would feel spaffing his thick load at the hands of the woman he demeaned. Granting someone considered a rival, a nightmarish adversary, such control of intimate facilities, would break many, but the sentiment only ballooned the manly man’s enlivenment. Every and any movement might pull his trigger, but how a minuteman like himself could foil a reflex he trained since discovering the jubilations of masturbation.

Maintaining his stillness, Alasdair closed his eyes. He focused on his shallow breaths, which only worsened as his tightened balls radiated pleasure upwards from his loins. Gently, he inhaled air, just enough that he felt slightly uncomfortable while his stomach expanded, combatting the conflicting sensual desires. The respiration lasted for moments, filling his broadening chest before he exhaled, the grip of his teeth slackening on his lips. Calmness laden his core with each deep inhalation, fending off his raging urge. By the fifth breath, Martina's degrading commentary held no leverage over his self-indulgent vices. By the tenth, the pulsating tension dimmed to the modest nestle of her crop.

While his cock never weakened, the rest of his body relaxed; washing away his anxiety and granting him relief. Displeasure etched across Martina's face upon seeing she had lost her match against the top dog. A slight crinkle manifested on her eyes and nose after drawing the disciplinary tool from his erection.

"Guess your willy has staying power."

She stood before him, making slow, deliberate steps around the bed, back and forth without observative disconnect. Alasdair's heart raced, expecting her next course of action. He closed his eyes, repeating his breathing exercises, nevertheless the muffled pacing peeved at him, pooling on more respirations needed to take off his worsening edge. Heat grazed his face and cock, her glares pestering him despite his covered gaze. Silence came in short order; his bones clattering deep inside. Restlessness overburdened him; his raw body prickled with pins and needles. Though all culminated in a **** mid-inhale cry, both sharp and haggard. Martina's tepidity washed over Alasdair while she loomed over him. His growing fear chilled to his marrow, her warmth doing nothing to bring about contentment.

"Still I wonder if I'm mistaken," she started, her index and middle fingers walking down Alasdair's chest. Once they skimmed his abdomen, his breath sputtered. He opened his eyes.

"Maybe a hand on approach would suitably test the validity of my claims."

Martina’s palms encircled Alasdair's erection, stroking his pole. Each sudden brush against his swollen balls thwarted his attempts at re-focusing his thoughts. His breathing exercise became a battle, with each intake of air falling short. She looped around his glans, her therapeutic fingers meeting each time at the apex of his sensitive head. The brawny man took in a swift breath, the renewed sensation raising a tingle in his chest. Again, his cock dribbled, then streamed, his clear, viscid pre-ejaculate, lubricating his shaft and sharpening his pleasure.

Martina laboured on without distraction; eying him rather than his erection. The corners of her mouth curled with Alasdair's grimace, breaking away into a foolish simper. He gripped the mattress as the sensual pressure continued building at his loins. His balls rose skywards at the base of his darkening cock. His glans, once more purplish, streamed more and more fluid, matching his arousal. He autonomously bucked his hips through the youthful woman's grip, aiding her in his accession towards ejaculatory inevitability.

"Almost there?" she asked, a sultry tone in her voice.

"Yes…," he moaned.

"Good."

Then she let go, the sudden release punting the euphoria back down into his balls. Alasdair cried aloud, struggling against his restraints as the pressure in his weighty package invoked dull aches upwards from his abdomen. Martina laughed, walking away to gussy herself before a mirror in the room. Her hilarity heightened with each swear the rowdy man threw in her direction. Music to her ears. Once satisfied, the youthful woman wagged her pointer finger at the beta pup.

"If only you had toned down the bravado, I might have considered releasing you. But you know what, I'm sure the hospitality staff would be more forgiving after enjoying your brief show."

"Let me out! Don't you dare leave!" Alasdair shouted, but Martina had already strutted towards the entrance; her exit.

"Word of advice. Stay hard. While your stiff willy won't turn heads, it's better than the alternative. See you in the office, Mr Myers."

She left, not bothering to close the door behind her.

"Get back here, Martina! Get your ass back here!"

With might and main, Alasdair yanked against the restraints and paddled the bed with his body, relentless vilification of Martina snapping away from his mouth. Though at a certain point, there was only so many swears and affronts he could propagate ahead of losing purpose. Long gone was his target, marooning painful spasms in his muscles after several minutes rampaging counter his predicament. The needle-like prickles ate at his strength, leaving unrigged his coalition among his upper and lower limbs.

"Fuck you, Martina!"

"W-What is that?" questioned a shy, feminine voice.

"I think it's coming from that room," answered a stronger, honeyed tone.

Two women poked their heads inside, their eyes widening upon seeing the stark-naked Alasdair Myers tied to the bed. Despite losing facility in his arms and legs, his cock stood proud; even sturdier after noticing the full-breasted, curvaceous women's attention on him and his manhood. His entire body flushed, but his attempts at belying his nudity proved both unsuccessful and hollow. His only strength resided at his groin. He had nowhere to go.

The women entered the room, speaking amongst one another, meanwhile skulking from Alasdair's sight behind a larger piece of furniture. A charge set off his enormous body, his dick jolting outside his control. He knew the two voyeurs were watching him, though the same could not be said the other way around. His heart whipped at his chest as he listened to them.

"Oh my god, he's big," whispered the shy woman. "He's even bigger than Kevin."

"Oh…I didn't know Kevin was that small," came back the honeyed voice.

"No, I mean his body! Ugh, besides he is not that small."

"Oh please. Even your little brother packs more heat than this guy and he just started puberty. This dude is small."

Small! Another set of women think his cock—his top dog cock—was small! While he tried reminding himself this was just a simulation, another play at his mental state, the women's remarks struck him. He was in his mid-thirties, yet his penis compared more to a pre-teen than an adult. He bit his lips, his anxiety returning along with his carnal craving. Despite his anger. Despite his frustration, their demeaning words tautened his balls and shaft. He flinched, his breathing hastening upon hearing the one…no, two clicks of a camera.

"Stop that!" exclaimed the shy woman.

"Nope!" responded the honeyed voice. "Not every day you see something like this. It looks like a parboiled sausage. Just look how red it is."

The nervous laughter of the shy woman expelled more pre-cum than he considered possible from his swollen penile glans. His toes and fingers clinched unbridled his rational thought. Regulating his breathing turned pointless once his urge to shoot his seed flowed rapidly through him. Here he defied cumming before Martina, a woman who ridiculed his manhood, only for him to still meet this fate while his mind raced. He tensed all over from titillation.

"Look how hard he's getting; you think he's turned on?" spoked Honeyed.

"I…I guess so."

"Wow! And here I thought those kinds of guys were fake. Hey, little guy. Are you enjoying this?!"

The shy woman groaned.

"Aww little guy. Are you shy? We won't bite. We have men for that—Ow!"

"Stop it! Even if he likes this, there's no reason to continue talking like that. He is not small."

"You are such a liar! You just called him small."

There was a pause, making Honeyed giggle.

"Just admit it, this is the smallest you've seen."

Shy maintained her silence, worsening Alasdair's anxiety. His breathing and pulse hurried, the sensual vigour extending towards his orgasmic brink. With each pester by Honeyed, he inched closer and closer to ejaculatory inevitability. Tears welled in his eyes, the image of his failure encroaching him without delay.

"Just admit it!"

More silence.

"So, are you suggesting that Kevin's dick is smaller? Or little Arnold? Or are you saying that Ms Goody-Two Shoes is naughtier than I thought—"

"—No! I've only seen them naked. Kevin and Arnold are not huge, but they are definitely not…"

Honeyed laughed.

"Go on…"

He was going to lose. His arousal surpassed his threshold. He was going to spaff his full load.

"Okay! He is the smallest I have ever seen! Are you happy—OH!"

Both women went still, their mouths falling open upon the first rope of semen letting fly from Alasdair's cock, striking the ceiling. The burly man groaned aloud as his erection continued shooting ropes after ropes of cum into the air; his inability to handle his shaft allowing his juices to toss about everywhere: his face and hair, the window, the mirror, even the lights. Fatigue annexed him, a calm taking over, settling his pounding heart and gasps with each pressured **** ousted from his softening shaft. He swore beneath his breath, at last placated of his sexual tension. Sadly, this short-lived tranquil broke into jovial laughter by both Shy and Honeyed, who had continued to snap photos of the spectacle.

"Wow…he looked so…funny," uttered the shy woman, a slight titter in her voice.

"It's becoming even smaller. He looks like a peanut."

"We have to go. I'm getting embarrassed."

"You're right," Honeyed tightly admitted; dispirited. "Well this was fun while it lasted. Nighty night Cashew."

Both women giggled, locking the door and turning off the lights, leaving Alasdair in the darkened room.

Alone with his regret.

Alone with his shame.

And of course. Alone with his broken manhood.