Sweet Revenge

This is so very sordid, so delicious that I can barely keep it all from bubbling forth. It is, however, such a yummy confection of a tale that I must prolong it, slowly doling out the details and letting it build up like the best of climaxes.
 
It commences, like most things do, from the beginning. For that, we must go back just a little bit, my pets. I was 17. Some of you may already know that this is the age at which my superiority began to manifest. I had already dominated, publicly humiliated, and smothered my first of many hapless victims, though at the time I knew nothing of my awesome power. That, my darlings, is a separate tale.
 
I was a baby sitter. I come from a family of very successful entrepreneurs and was always encouraged to run my own businesses and handle my own financial affairs. My sister, who is more than a year my junior, but who is in every palpable way my twin, was my partner. Adolescence was very kind to us both. Our long, lean bodies and ripe, round curves, which are now at their most luscious, were just as lovely and fabulous to behold at that tender stage.
 
My favorite family for whom to sit was the Applebaum brood. We referred with frequency to the Applebaum children as the "polite delights." Angels, the lot of them. It was their father who tended to misbehave.
 
Having scathingly rejected his seemingly inexhaustible overtures on many occasions, I was not completely surprised one cold afternoon when his wife told me that she'd caught him having an affair. He was lowly and unworthy of her, like so many of his gender. Worry not, pets. No misdeed goes unrewarded.
 
Mrs. Applebaum was not one with whom to be trifled. She explained to me that she'd sedated him one eve and given him two piercings whilst he was incapacitated. One was through the head of his puny peashooter; the other was beneath his miserable little sack. She had, of course, put a ring in each new hole and then secured the entire pathetic package with a padlock. 
 
For months she denied him pornography in all its forms and even the merest glimpse of her own naked body. He had to urinate in a seated position, like a woman. He was permitted to masturbate only once a month, under very strict and extreme conditions. On the appointed day, Mrs. Applebaum would make her philandering husband shackle himself to the radiator pipe in their massive and beautifully appointed master bath. Once Mrs. Applebaum was satisfied that he could not escape, they would trade keys.
 
Meanwhile, Mrs. Applebaum was indulging her impulses with their children's piano teacher. For this she could not be blamed. I'd had many fantasies of my own sparked by curiosity about his broad shoulders and his big, hard body. 
 
On that cold afternoon on which I learned so many of the Applebaum family secrets, I was entrusted with an awesome responsibility: I was given the key to Mr. Applebaum's padlock. Mrs. Applebaum was going to Australia for 2˝ weeks with the sexy pianist. Unfortunately for Mr. Applebaum, or Matt, as I would henceforth call him, his masturbation day would fall at the end of the second week. If Matt wanted that key, he was going to have to beg me for it.
 
How humiliated he had sounded when he called my house a few days later, first thing in the morning. As my mother handed me the phone, she said that he must really miss his wife—he sounded so terribly sad. Smugly, I accepted his call. I'd already suspected he'd try to get me to give him the key early and often. Mrs. Applebaum had told me I could do anything I wanted; her sole request was that I be absolutely sure to have more fun with the arrangement than he. In my mind, I had a very clear agenda.   
 
My sister took the polite delights with her to another sitting job that afternoon so that Matt and I could be home alone. I arrived, resplendent in a crisp white sundress and strappy sandals with four-inch heels, which were not at all appropriate for the weather. The dress was sleeveless, with a mandarin collar and a large diamond-shaped keyhole over my pretty cleavage. The dress also revealed much of my back, and since it belonged to my beautiful little sister, it was way too short.
The sandals had six or seven straps making an exquisite crisscross pattern over my feet and exposing my lovely toes. The ankle strap was a sexy touch.
 
As Matt's eyes drank in my glory, his face began to contort with pain. It was only then that I realized the full gravity of his situation: his erections were extremely painful. My white cotton panties were beginning to cling to my wet, swelling lips, and I hoped Matt could see my nipples expanding through the light fabric. Mutely, he surrendered the key to his handcuffs. I slipped it into the keyhole neckline of my dress for temporary safekeeping. Matt let out a groan, and as he hastened upstairs, I secreted it under the edge of the carpet.
 
Matt quickly undressed and restrained himself in the master bath. The sight of him so vulnerable, submissive, and uncomfortable started wicked processes in my mind and between my firm thighs. I stared at his naked body for a long time. It wasn't bad. It wasn't the pianist, but it wasn't bad at all. You know. Other than his little bits. Matt mumbled something about the keys, and my mind flashed back to our conversation on the phone earlier that day.
 
Matt had evidently hoped to be able to be vague with me on the phone, because he'd led off by saying merely, "I know Mrs. Applebaum told you all about . . . you know . . ." Playing coy, pretending to be completely in the dark, I had made him give me every detail of the horror story that had become his life. He began by shakily telling me that his favorite bits were locked up and that I'd been given the key. I asked him why he might need the key when his wife was away, and he reluctantly told me of their arrangement. The more he confided, the more he stammered and seemed ashamed. Naturally, the more shame he evinced, the more aroused I became. I forced him to tell me everything about his new predicament, the transgressions which led to the situation entire, and the fact that his wife was now getting her sexual satisfaction from the pianist he paid, under the roof for which he paid, and was now taking her stud on a vacation for which Matt was also paying. After I bade him to tell me all of this, I assured him I'd drop by after school and hung up. In a matter of seconds I was on my bed, biting my pillow and creaming all over my manicured fingers. 
 
All of that flooded my memory as I watched him being tortured by his own arousal.
 
"How badly," I asked, "do you need this key?" I held it up in the sunlit room. "Do you need it badly enough to comply with my every request?"
 
He could barely get out a whimper. "Well, I'm not going to give it to you." I smiled cruelly as Matt burst into tears. I let him cry and beg incoherently for five solid minutes, and then I clucked my tongue and left the room. Once alone, I checked my panties, which were so wet that one could see right through them. I steeled my resolve and focused on my objective.
 
When I returned to the bathroom, I had in my possession a blindfold, compliments of Matt's mean-spirited wife. "I'm not going to give you this key, Matt, unless you get me off first." I began to blindfold him. "You haven't seen a nude woman in ages, Matt, and I'm not about to make that change for you. However, I am going to let you smell me, taste me, and feel me on your lips and face until I tire of that amusement." He made a face, and it wasn't a happy one. I realized then that not everything had been taken into account. 
 
Further questioning revealed that Matt did not enjoy performing oral sex. Unfortunately for him, that was what lay between him and his next orgasm. 
 
Needless to say, he was forced to swallow my abundant juices as I had climax, after climax, after climax that cold, sunny day, and there simply was not enough time left over for him to have one of his own. Oh well. There would always be some other day, right? 
 
That afternoon was a linchpin event between him and me. I reigned over Matthew Applebaum, who was old enough to be my Daddy, for a few years before I lost interest in using him. By then, he'd learned to live for the taste of my creaminess. 
 
 



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