Gingerbread Man’s Tale


He’d left the club in such a hurry he hadn’t even bothered to grab his jacket.  He needed to get out of there, avoid that woman’s clutches, even though it meant she’d give him a terrible rating.  So far he had an unblemished 5 stars, but walking out on tonight’s date with Olivia Baker was going to end that.

His bio read “Gingerbread Man: Good enough to eat!  With a gym-honed body and a sparkling wit you’ll enjoy each moment spent in the company of this fascinating guy who enjoys luxury travel, theatre and ball games.”  Everyone who belonged to the agency  knew those were euphemisms for liking role play and being submissive.   His agency name referred to the golden tan he liked to maintain and his hair – blonde with red highlights.

He walked as fast as he could away from the industrial estate where the club was located, an anonymous building amongst businesses which operated there during daylight hours.  He tried to shrug off the memory of Olivia dressing him in a giant towelling nappy and spooning baby food into his mouth before wanting him to suckle on her pendulous white titties!  Curse the agency for getting him that gig; he enjoyed spankings and sensory deprivation … but age play was a step too far for him.

He was proud of his muscular physique, enjoyed being coated in a sheen of sweat and bound or gagged but was never happier than when being punished by a powerful woman.  He enjoyed the feel of a paddle or flogger applied to his backside, the heat building up as the blows rained down on the backs of his thighs, his buttocks while the sting, ache and pain made his cock engorge with excitement.  He loved the powerplay, it made him hard and humiliated simultaneously, yet that shame made his cock throb with lust.  When a woman commanded him to kiss her shiny black boots or lick and suck at her pussy until she was swollen and running with juices, his emotions were hectic and euphoric.

He picked up the pace, a voice in his head chanting “run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man.”

Suddenly he was aware of blinding headlights speeding in from the right.  He teetered on the edge of the kerb, trying to cease momentum before stepping into the path of the oncoming vehicle.  He put out his hands in a gesture of stop/surrender and the tyres squealed as the big, luxury car skidded to a halt.

The full beam flooded his face and made him squint.  He stumbled round to the passenger side and the driver buzzed down the window.

“I could’ve killed you!”  her voice was deep and cultured, but irritated.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry.  Can you give me a lift?”  He pushed his blonde hair out of his eyes and gave the attractive woman driver his most appealing expression.

“I’m headed out of the city, does that suit you?”

His eyes travelled over her outfit, a form fitting red dress, a wide black belt laced like a corset cinching in her waist.  The sweetheart neckline hinted at a dark shadowy cleavage buttressed by the curves of her breasts.  He felt a stirring in his jeans as his erection pressed against the buttons of his flies; when working as an escort he went without underwear for speed.   Nodding enthusiastically he operated the door handle and swung into the confines of the leather seat.  With a press on the accelerator, the car sped silently away, leaving Olivia Baker and the O.T.T. sex club far behind.

In the car’s dark womb he took time for his eyes to adjust, then drank in the vision that was his rescuer.  Her fiery red hair was wavy and tousled, loosely tamed into a plait resting over one shoulder.  Her bust in profile was truly magnificent and he admired her curvy rear and shapely legs, fastened tightly into black suede high-heeled boots which laced all the way up to her thighs.  He felt his boner stir again and a drop of precum gathered at the tip of his helmet.  This lady was a fox!

The lights of the city sped by in a blur, it was late so only pubs and clubs and a few convenience stores were open.  The people on the streets were either dressed up for a night out, or homeless folk wearing lots of layers with no shelter for the night.  His eyes slid sideways again, to the woman at the wheel, wondering why she was alone on a Saturday night.

“I don’t want to hold you up if you’re meeting someone … drop me anywhere.”

“It’s not a problem, I’m on my way home.”  Her deep voice was a purr, he found it sexy as hell.

“Oh, so you live outside the city?”

“Yeah, I like the suburbs, it’s a nice neighbourhood but folk keep themselves to themselves.”

He pondered that, personally he found total anonymity in the city, but was curious why she wanted privacy.  As an escort he’d found people shared more details if you didn’t ask outright questions.  He noticed when the gridwork of streets gave way to wider roads lined with trees.  He wasn’t familiar with this neighbourhood, but it looked nice, classy.

“You got somewhere to go?” she asked, turning her head towards him.

“Not anymore.”  He kept his eyes on her face.

“Wanna come back to mine?  We can have a drink.”

Now that was more like it!  He agreed enthusiastically and she steered the car smoothly to her place which was behind a hedge and down a drive.   Mostly he hooked up with clients in hotel rooms, but her house was certainly impressive.  He tried not to stare but he took in the manicured gardens, the many windows and the high-tech security system as she let him into her home.

“What’s your poison?” she called over her shoulder, while he tried to take in the expensive neutral decor and shiny surfaces.  When she flung her coat and bag on a leather club chair in the hallway he was almost mesmerised by the sway of her curvy hips as she swanked ahead of him, stopping by a tray with glasses and crystal decanters.

“What’re you having?”  He hedged.
“Scotch on the rocks.”
“I’ll join you, but a squirt of soda if you have it.”  He should’ve guessed she’d drink like a guy!  “Lovely place you have here, do you live alone?”
“Most of the time,” she sipped her drink, watching him over the rim of her glass, “my husband works abroad.”

They moved to a seating area, plush sofas with huge cushions grouped around a glass coffee table through which he could see stacks of photographic books, as if he’d stumbled into the pages of Homes and Gardens.  She sat down and crossed her elegant legs, the red dress rode up her thighs so he tried not to stare.

“What keeps you busy?” she asked, her alert eyes dark with intelligence.
“I keep rich women company,” there – he’d said it.  He braced himself for disgust or fury.
“D’you enjoy it?” she sipped her drink.
“Yes – mostly.”  He wasn’t sure why he was being so honest, but he felt a connection and had nothing to lose.
“So you take them to the ballet, the theatre, that sort of thing?”
“Yeah, sometimes.”  He didn’t elaborate and the silence was heavy for a beat.
“What else do you do?”  She swirled the ice in her drink, leaning towards him.  He watched as she wet her lips with her tongue and his cock throbbed in his jeans.
“I let them tie me up and fuck me.”  He took a gulp of scotch and it burned his throat.
“Delicious!” she smiled and sat back, spreading her arms wide along the cushions.  “Would you like to be fucked by me?”

For a moment he was dumbstruck, but his pulse kicked up and his engorged cock almost answered for him!  “I work for an agency, women book me online.”
“But you’re not working tonight?”
“I was booked,” his shame at the events earlier made him feel wrong-footed, “but I cancelled the arrangement.”
“So I rescued you?”
He nodded.
“And you don’t have any more – ah – engagements for tonight?” She made it sound so businesslike.
He shook his head.
“That’s settled then, I’d like to pay you to stay the night.”  She downed her drink and stood up, smoothing her dress over her thighs while putting out a hand to shake on the deal.
As he grasped her hand it occurred to him that she hadn’t asked his rates, but living in a place like this he supposed that money wasn’t a problem.

“Follow me,” she said and sashayed ahead of him, through 2 large reception rooms towards the back of the house.  “You can take your clothes off here,” and she indicated a small changing room with a slatted bench and hooks on the wall, the kind you’d find in a spa.  “When you’re naked go through that door and you’ll find the pool and the jacuzzi, I’ll meet you there.”

The situation and the turn of events was slightly strange, but the Gingerbread Man undid his shirt and peeled off his jeans, leaving them hanging on the hooks, placing his shoes under the bench.  He glimpsed himself in a long mirror, and was comforted by his reflection. His abs were defined like the squares on a bar of chocolate and his thick cock stood out from a hairless crotch, already semi aroused by his foxy hostess.  His skin looked golden and flawless and he ran his hand through his glossy hair and winked, “you’ve hit the jackpot with this one mate!”  Then he pushed the door open to the tiled pool room.

He didn’t have to wait long for his hostess to reappear, this time naked except for the long laced boots and a body harness of leather straps.  Her beautiful red hair was tied up tighter than before, the plait falling from the crown of her head to swish between her shoulder blades like a tail.  He noticed her bush was red too, neatly trimmed to a sparse triangle, framed by the leather straps which disappeared between her legs but most likely left access to her pussy.  His cock bobbed and swelled in appreciation of the firm, toned flesh on display and her dominant demeanour, it seemed his luck had changed!

“Turn around,” she commanded, studying him like a racehorse.  “Kneel.”
He sank to his knees, spreading his legs and putting his hands behind his back, this was standard stuff.   Even when she fastened a blindfold over his eyes, he was not concerned.

“Pleasure me,” she instructed, “But don’t use your hands.”
So he followed the fragrance of her moist pussy, which was almost level with his nose, commencing licking, sucking and nibbling at her, letting his tongue worship her juicy folds.  He teased moans and curses from her with his oral skills, and though his jaw ached and his tongue strained he only stopped sucking and teasing on her command.

“Very good,” she purred, walking behind him and fastening cuffs to his wrists.  “Stand” she commanded and he rose to his feet, glad to feel the circulation returning to his legs.
“Have you ever worn a collar?”  Her tone was domineering and it thrilled him.
“No,” he shook his head.
She gripped his chin forcefully, and he wanted to wince.  “Address me as Mistress!”
“No Mistress,” he corrected his answer and she released her grip, trailing her hand down his neck and across his chest before grasping his nipple with pincer fingers.
“Do you like pain?” Her voice had a growl to it now, but before he could answer she laughed.  “I see you do!  Your pathetic little peeny has given the game away!” and she delivered a slap to his cock which stung like hell, yet had him throbbing with increased desire.
She grasped both his nipples firmly and tightened her fingers, pulling to elongate the nubs of flesh, while the Gingerbread Man did his best to suppress a groan of pleasure/pain.

She left him kneeling, while she clicked away along the poolside, when she returned he felt simultaneous pain in both nipples as she fastened them in some sort of clamps.  Then she pulled on them both at once so the Gingerbread Man guessed the clamps were linked by a chain across his chest.  Next he felt something go round his neck and he felt the brush of her breast near his face as the collar was fastened.
“Pretty”  she remarked with satisfaction.

The Gingerbread Man did indeed feel pretty, this was his happy place: an attractive woman dominating him, some light bondage and a little pain.  His nipples were tingling and his penis throbbing with unsatisfied desire, but if she edged him right, he could go on like this for hours.  He enjoyed the anticipation and feeling slightly off balance. Wearing a blindfold or with a new playmate, he couldn’t guess what was going to happen next and that frisson felt both dangerous and exciting.

He felt a tug at his neck, she pulled on his collar and he stumbled, wanting to follow her but unsure where he was in relation to the water.
“Mistress, I can’t swim.”  He felt shame at this confession.  All the old taunts ran through his head:  What sort of a grown-up can’t swim?  Especially one who spends hours in the gym making their body look like an athlete’s.
“Pathetic,” she responded continuing to use the collar to guide him.  Soon she commanded him to sit, and he tentatively lowered himself into a pool lounger.

“What are we going to do with this pathetic little thing?” she questioned as he sat, knowing that his erection was engorged and throbbing, with pre-cum gathering at it apex.  No-one had ever been disappointed in his manhood before, but her words made him doubt himself.

Suddenly he felt warmth and wetness encompass his knob, and he knew she’d taken him into her mouth.  He felt a soar of delight as she sucked and licked at him, teasing round the frenulum and pulling gently on his ball sac.  Then it stopped and there was silence.

“It’s not getting any bigger?  Is that the best you have to offer me?”  Her cruel words cut into him, even as her tugging on the chain between his nipples made him squirm in agonized excitement.  “Lean back,” she commanded, pushing him to a reclining position which was not at all comfortable with his arms fastened behind him.  She fellated him some more, letting her mouth get really slobbery and pumping up and down on his length, from sensitive tip to almost swallowing him whole.  With the blindfold on and his hands restrained, he began to feel he was just a disembodied cock, all his focus pinpointed in on the licking and sucking his foxy Mistress was lavishing on him.  She drew her mouth up and down, keeping her lips tight on his circumference so he could feel the flesh of her throat bumping and stroking his glans as she sucked him deep.

The Gingerbread Man grew dizzy with pressure building in his core, while his balls tightened, ready to shoot their load.  She maintained her relentless sucking, bobbing pace while wriggling a finger under him, past the pad of his perineum to snake it into his anus, pressing and wheedling in until she was massaging his p-spot.  Holy cow!  That was it – he was undone.  He let fly with ropes of hot, urgent spunk, while she held her mouth steady and swallowed all he had to offer.  He came and came, his aching cock pumping throbs of pearlescent, salty liquid into the warm tunnel of her greedy mouth, and the foxy lady gobbled him right up.

Later that night the Gingerbread Man knew he was never going home to his old life, his new mistress had her claws too deep into him. He willingly agreed to her locking his wilted cock into a cage. Now she owned his body, his orgasms, even his arousal!  He did not dare think of her beautiful body and the sexy yet humiliating things she’d done to him over the last few hours, for fear of his member stiffening in the cruel confines of its restrictive cage.  He tried to get comfortable in the single bed in the bare room she’d told him to occupy, far from the life he was used to and the people he’d known, but he sighed to be safely under her control.

Links have been added to this twisted fairytale so that you can visualise the adult toys/ accessories used, or recreate the scene for yourself!  

3 thoughts on “Gingerbread Man’s Tale”

  1. Pingback: - Posy Churchgate ~ Pillow Talk

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