The Big Mistake F/M
Posted: Sun Nov 02, 2025 11:55 am
Keiran stepped into the dimly lit entrance of the Tickle Studio, his heart pounding with a mix of nerves and excitement. He'd booked the session on a whim—a late-night impulse after scrolling through reviews on some discreet forum. "Intense, immersive, no escape," the ad had promised, and at 28, freshly single and craving a thrill to shake off the breakup blues, it sounded like exactly the kind of reckless adventure he needed. The receptionist, a sly-eyed woman with a clipboard, had barely glanced up as she took his payment and led him down a narrow hallway lined with padded doors.
"Change into this," she'd said, handing him a thin robe, her voice dripping with professional detachment. "Session starts in five. No safe word—just tap out if it's too much." Keiran chuckled nervously, stripping down in the small antechamber and folding his clothes into a locker. He didn't notice the faint scent of lavender and leather in the air, or the way the door clicked shut behind him with an extra firmness.
The main room was a converted basement, all exposed brick and soft LED lights casting long shadows. In the center stood the stocks—polished wood, medieval in design but modern in its adjustability, with padded cuffs for wrists and ankles. A single chair waited nearby, but it was the array of feathers, brushes, and vibrating tools on a nearby cart that made his stomach flip. Keiran swallowed hard, slipping off the robe and positioning himself as instructed: bent forward, neck and wrists locked into the upper bar, ankles secured below. The wood was cool against his bare skin, and he tugged experimentally—solid, unyielding. A thrill shot through him. This was it.
From the shadows, a figure emerged, gloved hands adjusting the fit. "Comfy?" the voice purred, low and teasing. Keiran started to nod, but then the gag came—a thick pecker gag, silicone and unapologetically phallic, sliding between his lips before he could protest. It buckled tight behind his head, muffling his surprised grunt into a garbled hum. His eyes widened as the straps pulled taut, filling his mouth with an insistent, humiliating pressure that made his cheeks burn. He could taste the faint latex tang, feel the way it forced his jaw open just enough to drool helplessly. No words now—just vulnerable, exposed sounds.
The figure stepped into the light, and Keiran's world tilted. Long auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, sharp green eyes that used to melt him with a glance, and that wicked smile he knew all too well. Mia. His ex. The one who'd dumped him six months ago over "irreconcilable differences" after catching him flirting with her roommate. The one who'd texted him exactly once since: *Enjoy your freedom, perv.*
"Oh, Kei," she cooed, circling him like a predator sizing up prey. Her outfit was pure dominatrix chic—black latex corset hugging her curves, thigh-high boots clicking on the floor, and a feather duster in one gloved hand. "Of all the studios in the city, you walk into mine. Fate's a funny bitch, isn't she?" She trailed the feather along his exposed side, from ribs to hip, watching him twitch and strain against the stocks. A muffled whimper escaped around the gag, his body betraying him with an involuntary shiver.
Mia's laugh was soft, cruel. "You always did squirm so prettily. Remember that time in my apartment? You thought you could handle a little teasing. But this..." She leaned in close, her breath hot against his ear, the feather now dancing under his armpit. "This is payback, baby. For every eye you wandered, every secret you kept." Her free hand gripped his chin, tilting his head up so he had no choice but to meet her gaze. Drool trickled down his chin, soaking the gag's base, and she wiped it away with her thumb—only to smear it across his chest like war paint.
She worked methodically at first, light strokes with the feather building to firmer brushes that scraped his soles, his thighs, the sensitive hollows of his knees. Keiran's laughter bubbled up, choked and desperate through the gag, his body convulsing in the stocks. Tears pricked his eyes as she zeroed in on his ribs, her nails joining the assault—scratchy, relentless. "Mmmph! Nnngh!" was all he could manage, hips bucking uselessly, every nerve alight with that maddening itch he couldn't scratch. His cock, traitor that it was, stirred against the cool air, drawing a delighted hum from Mia.
"Look at you," she murmured, switching to a vibrating toothbrush that buzzed mercilessly against his inner thighs. "Tied up, gagged like a good little boy, and still getting hard for me. Some things never change." She paused only to adjust the gag, tightening it until it pressed deeper, making his pleas dissolve into wet, incoherent gurgles. Sweat beaded on his skin, muscles aching from the futile struggles, but she didn't let up—alternating soft whispers of old inside jokes ("Remember our safe word? Too bad you don't get one here") with bursts of intensity that left him gasping, boneless, begging with his eyes.
Hours blurred—or was it minutes? Time lost meaning in the haze of sensation. Mia finally stepped back, appraising her handiwork: Keiran slumped in the stocks, chest heaving, skin flushed and marked with faint red trails, the gag slick with saliva. She unbuckled it slowly, letting it drop with a wet plop, and he coughed, rasping, "Mia... please..."
She cupped his face, thumb brushing his swollen lips. "Session's over, Kei. But call me sometime. We could make this a regular thing." With a wink, she unlocked the stocks, leaving him to collapse onto the padded floor, spent and strangely sated. As she sauntered out, the door clicking shut behind her, Keiran touched his aching jaw and grinned through the aftershocks. Breakup blues? Cured. At least until the next itch.
"Change into this," she'd said, handing him a thin robe, her voice dripping with professional detachment. "Session starts in five. No safe word—just tap out if it's too much." Keiran chuckled nervously, stripping down in the small antechamber and folding his clothes into a locker. He didn't notice the faint scent of lavender and leather in the air, or the way the door clicked shut behind him with an extra firmness.
The main room was a converted basement, all exposed brick and soft LED lights casting long shadows. In the center stood the stocks—polished wood, medieval in design but modern in its adjustability, with padded cuffs for wrists and ankles. A single chair waited nearby, but it was the array of feathers, brushes, and vibrating tools on a nearby cart that made his stomach flip. Keiran swallowed hard, slipping off the robe and positioning himself as instructed: bent forward, neck and wrists locked into the upper bar, ankles secured below. The wood was cool against his bare skin, and he tugged experimentally—solid, unyielding. A thrill shot through him. This was it.
From the shadows, a figure emerged, gloved hands adjusting the fit. "Comfy?" the voice purred, low and teasing. Keiran started to nod, but then the gag came—a thick pecker gag, silicone and unapologetically phallic, sliding between his lips before he could protest. It buckled tight behind his head, muffling his surprised grunt into a garbled hum. His eyes widened as the straps pulled taut, filling his mouth with an insistent, humiliating pressure that made his cheeks burn. He could taste the faint latex tang, feel the way it forced his jaw open just enough to drool helplessly. No words now—just vulnerable, exposed sounds.
The figure stepped into the light, and Keiran's world tilted. Long auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, sharp green eyes that used to melt him with a glance, and that wicked smile he knew all too well. Mia. His ex. The one who'd dumped him six months ago over "irreconcilable differences" after catching him flirting with her roommate. The one who'd texted him exactly once since: *Enjoy your freedom, perv.*
"Oh, Kei," she cooed, circling him like a predator sizing up prey. Her outfit was pure dominatrix chic—black latex corset hugging her curves, thigh-high boots clicking on the floor, and a feather duster in one gloved hand. "Of all the studios in the city, you walk into mine. Fate's a funny bitch, isn't she?" She trailed the feather along his exposed side, from ribs to hip, watching him twitch and strain against the stocks. A muffled whimper escaped around the gag, his body betraying him with an involuntary shiver.
Mia's laugh was soft, cruel. "You always did squirm so prettily. Remember that time in my apartment? You thought you could handle a little teasing. But this..." She leaned in close, her breath hot against his ear, the feather now dancing under his armpit. "This is payback, baby. For every eye you wandered, every secret you kept." Her free hand gripped his chin, tilting his head up so he had no choice but to meet her gaze. Drool trickled down his chin, soaking the gag's base, and she wiped it away with her thumb—only to smear it across his chest like war paint.
She worked methodically at first, light strokes with the feather building to firmer brushes that scraped his soles, his thighs, the sensitive hollows of his knees. Keiran's laughter bubbled up, choked and desperate through the gag, his body convulsing in the stocks. Tears pricked his eyes as she zeroed in on his ribs, her nails joining the assault—scratchy, relentless. "Mmmph! Nnngh!" was all he could manage, hips bucking uselessly, every nerve alight with that maddening itch he couldn't scratch. His cock, traitor that it was, stirred against the cool air, drawing a delighted hum from Mia.
"Look at you," she murmured, switching to a vibrating toothbrush that buzzed mercilessly against his inner thighs. "Tied up, gagged like a good little boy, and still getting hard for me. Some things never change." She paused only to adjust the gag, tightening it until it pressed deeper, making his pleas dissolve into wet, incoherent gurgles. Sweat beaded on his skin, muscles aching from the futile struggles, but she didn't let up—alternating soft whispers of old inside jokes ("Remember our safe word? Too bad you don't get one here") with bursts of intensity that left him gasping, boneless, begging with his eyes.
Hours blurred—or was it minutes? Time lost meaning in the haze of sensation. Mia finally stepped back, appraising her handiwork: Keiran slumped in the stocks, chest heaving, skin flushed and marked with faint red trails, the gag slick with saliva. She unbuckled it slowly, letting it drop with a wet plop, and he coughed, rasping, "Mia... please..."
She cupped his face, thumb brushing his swollen lips. "Session's over, Kei. But call me sometime. We could make this a regular thing." With a wink, she unlocked the stocks, leaving him to collapse onto the padded floor, spent and strangely sated. As she sauntered out, the door clicking shut behind her, Keiran touched his aching jaw and grinned through the aftershocks. Breakup blues? Cured. At least until the next itch.