Into the fire

Your heart leaps into your throat. 'A battle?! No way.'

But before you can really formulate a proper response, a creature bounds into view to stand over you. Pidgey chirps fearfully and flaps her wings at the Growlithe that pops into view, inches from your face. You can't read any kind of expression; it's just there, staring at you from mere inches away, its breath hot on your face.

"Ah!" You yelp, straining uselessly against your comfortable bonds. It yields more than it did when you first slipped into your meditative state. You're sure that you can pull free of it given time. But as you struggle to free yourself, the fire-dog produces a low growl in your face and you freeze.

"Easy, Torch. She's not food."

A man appears above you, standing directly behind your head to look down at you with a grin. "Not for you, anyway. Hello, there, lovely. You seem to be in a rather tight spot. Tell you what, forfeit the match and I'll help you out of your bind."

The man looks to be about thirty, is handsome, and is definitely no rookie. Six Pokeballs are visible on his belt just inside his long jacket. His eyes betray experience and confidence. There's no way in hell you can beat this man with your one weak Pidgey.

"Yes! Please. I give up, you win. Whatever I have to say. Thank you."

He waves to his Growlithe, who backs up a few feet to sit, then he points to your Pidgey. "Recall your bird."

Gesturing with your chin, you indicate where the Pokeball fell from your hands. "There. The ball is there. I'm really glad you found me before something bad happened, Mister..."

"For now, just call me... Sir." The man bends to retrieve Pidgey's ball, and recalls the bird into it with a flash of light. As he turns to you it occurs to you that you are now truly helpless, and bound, at the complete mercy of a total stranger. Your stomach flutters and a warm acknowledgement of that fact spreads between your legs.

"O-oh. Okay. Sir. Yes, Sir." You lie motionless on the ground, very aware of the Growlithe's eyes watching you. Your time around the punks and thugs of Team Rocket taught you how to roll over for someone who had every advantage. It's always easier to just let them take what they want.

"Good girl. Not completely stupid after all." He pulls a saw-bladed tool from a pocket somewhere behind him and stoops to cut you free from the grass, pulling you rather roughly by your hair into a kneeling position.

"A-ah!" you cry out. You find it a challenge to gain your balance, but once you do he releases you to kneel before him. "Thank you. Sir." Something stirs in you as the man's hand lowers to firmly-yet-not-quite-threateningly grip your throat and forces your eyes up to his.

He tilts his head, assessing you with seeming indifference before opening his fly with his free hand. A surprisingly large cock pops out, pressing against your nose. "Open your mouth."

Your mouth falls open without a thought. Sir feeds you his manhood until you nearly gag, then releases your throat with his other hand so you're free to move. "Thank me properly."

You don't need to be told twice. Loins on fire from the sheer dominance of the man and fueled by your impossibly **** position, you determinedly focus all your efforts on giving Sir the very best blowjob you can manage. After a shaky start, rattled as you are, your enthusiasm becomes genuine. The man lights an eagerness in your belly, and the thick meaty presence of his musky cock filling your senses is an aphrodisiac in its own right. You've never enjoyed such a beautiful cock in your life and you aren't about to waste this opportunity.

Slurping and sucking as your head bobs on Sir's perfect manhood, you pull gently on your gooey bonds and are delighted to find that they hold. This is a perfect moment. Bound, helpless, in the confident hands of a perfectly capable, dominant man, you worship at his pleasure, giving him the sum total of your focus and devotion.

The moment ends with a groan and a tell-tale tensing of flesh in your mouth. You brace yourself to swallow your reward but with a firm hand on your forehead, he withdraws from you and instead splashes his own hot white mess across your upturned face. Panting, half-delirious from the experience, you're barely aware of him freeing you from the string-shot bug stuff. He lifts your left hand and surrenders your match to himself.

Your record appears in the air. 0-1. A corresponding beep from Sir's trainer card acknowledges his win.

"Oh, your very first? That's adorable." He turns your hand over and places Pidgey's Pokeball in your palm. "Take care out here, Kitten. Maybe get stronger and we'll cross paths again."

You nod dreamily, still dazed from so many endorphins in your blood that you're dizzy. You would be his ****, you realize, if he let you. He is everything you value. Powerful, commanding, dominant, well-hung, apparently not an asshole... It would be a happy life. But by the time you return fully to yourself, he is gone and you are alone in the woods once more.