Hair of the Dog

The next morning is hell. Your head feels as though it was split open like a Magarian sweet melon and your brain is just as fuzzy as the fruit within. Melodia, after some very endearing begging, managed to convince you to let her do a medical check. Bless her little hearth, the love **** tried to make it sexy, she really did. She got the whole getup; impossibly tight latex nurse outfit that didn’t even cover her luscious ass, fishnets, red heels and that silly little cap. Even Alexa was involved as the nurses assistant. Somehow, her outfit managed to be skimpier, a skin tight straitjacket with cut outs for her petite tits, red tape criss crossing over he exposed nipples. You're not sure what her contribution was supposed to be, but she seemed happy to be there. It was a very thoughtful gesture that ultimately failed it’s primary purpose of starting your day with some kinky roleplay. It did however reveal that the toxin’s of Hellno are naturally purged by the body, the same way **** is, via the hangover. That wouldn’t be so bad, if her analysis didn’t suggest that Bellextra, your fucking ****, wasn’t suffering at all. Because fucking Iah Kuruh, that’s why!

This will not stand. This, this... this inequity will not go unanswered.

You march into the dungeon in your fuzzy slippers and bathrobe. While the plain white garment isn’t typical fetish wear, it does signal your no fucks given attitude. A tangle mess of bed hair is tied in a sloppy bun, and your face is a storm cloud to rival the endless torrent of Hellno. “Well I don’t know about you, but I feel like shit.” A steaming cup of coffee is not doing nearly enough to quell your hangover, in spite of the generous slug of Ninerian Whiskey you added.

For her part, Bellextra certainly looks like shit but that probably has more to do with the pent up lust hanging in her ballsack. The computer tells you that it has been ten and a half hours since you started the denial program but based on Bellextra’s bloodshot eyes, you would think it was closer to fifteen. Haggard breaths spray drool as she tries to plead through the gag. “Feash! Le’ meh ‘um!” she begs.

All you can do is close your eyes and furrow your brow. Each cry is a laser cutter, drilling through your neurons and threatening to lobotomize you. “Yeah that's enough of that,” you say pinching your nose and pressing a button.

A matte black hood drops from the ceiling and shuts around her face. The clamshell contraption forms a perfect sphere. With a hiss it seals shut and all noise abruptly ceases. The silence’s beauty is only rivaled by Bellextra’s nude form. You really wish you could enjoy it more.

You grab a cane, something simple, because if you're being honest, you're not feeling particularly creative at the moment.

“Mmmmhhh.” Your tongue slides across your luscious lips as you circle your prey. Her head swivels back and forth in a useless attempt to learn more about her surroundings, the domed sensory deprivation helmet spinning like an object lost in space. In the void beneath the inky black shell, the only noise Bellextra can hear is her own breathing and of course her own screams. You swing the cane.

The metallic arms groan in protest as she flails at the sudden pain. No doubt a prepared, rested and most importantly unfettered Bellextra wouldn't bat an eye. But a blind and deaf Bellextra? Who’s been edged all night? She loses her shit. There is a metallic whine as the servos compensate for the sudden outburst and the **** is pulled taught. You can’t hear her scream or her heavy breaths, but all the signs are there. Her muscles quake and spasm while her heavy chest heaves like two mountains undergoing rapid upheaval.

“Warning” comes a metallic voice. “Arousal levels exceeding denial program parameters. Initiating edging routines.”

“You hear that Bellextra?” Another cane strike followed by another synthesized warning. “The dungeon’s computer thinks you're a pain slut. Let’s test that shall we?” What is it about taunting someone who can’t hear so satisfying? It’s counterintuitive, but there it is.

Tap, tap, tap. A few exploratory strokes with the cane. Nothing that will cause pain, but Bellextra convulses as though branded with hot iron. Her entire body braces for the blow that will surely come soon. Any second now. The palpable tension as she clenches each muscle, waiting, waiting, waiting. You sip your coffee.

Her breathing slows down. Her muscles relax as time goes by. You can see the doubt creeping into her as she wonders when the blow will come. Eventually, the internal question changes. Will the next blow come? Has she been abandoned? Another sip of coffee. Two more. Half a cup later and still Bellextra waits.

Her body language changes. The effort of guarding against an unknown blow take their toll. The vibrators turn back up and her focus redirects to the torments of the present. No doubt she is moaning like the bitch in heat that she is, but blissfully, the room is silent save for the humming of the vibrators. Idly you have the biomonitors display her heart-rate and arousal. Both are accelerating at velocities to rival a hot-rod. Blood gushes to the penis, desire seeking release.

Bellextra can’t see you set your coffee down, or draw your arm back. All she feels is the impossibly sharp strike as the cane sears a line across her belly, just above her crotch. “Warning” the computer says far too late, “Prisoner has orgasmed. Shutting down vibrators.” Cum leaks out of the onahole and drips down her nutsack. Her entire body jerks to and fro as she keeps spurting her masochistic pleasure.

“Negative. Disengage denial protocols. Turn vibrators to full.”

“Confirmed.” Industrial buzzing fills the air complimented by clacking as Bellextra shakes against her cuffs. It’s less of an effort to get free and more of an involuntary expression of her continued orgasm. You sigh deeply. Between the coffee and the soothing struggles of Bellextra, this is turning out to be the perfect hangover cure.