Business as Usual Sidetrack Seven
wherein Jin miscalculates
by Laura Bryannan

Westerners have a phrase, “Idle hands are the devil's playground,” and such wisdom certainly applies to Mugen. The man appears to be incapable of entertaining himself for longer than an hour before getting into some kind of trouble. However, it is my own pride and foolishness that has brought me to my current situation, and you'd think I'd know better by now.

Unfortunately, he is a master at goading me into these kinds of things and so here I am, naked and blindfolded on a chair in the kitchen, promising to make no further sound. The rules are simple: my hands must not leave the armrests and I must submit to his demands. He's not allowed to hurt or tickle, but otherwise he may do whatever he likes to make me break my vow.

So far, I am winning, and I believe he is running out of ideas. I've had mostly tasty food shoved into my mouth along with two shots of whiskey, which made it harder to stay upright but easier to fellate his fingers, the banana, and himself. I've licked so many substances off of his cock at this point, my tongue is weary and my mouth is reminding me why sweet, sour, salty and bitter don't work well together.

He's tried every form of sex at this point to no avail. My nipples are clamped but he's forgotten about them, thankfully, and they went numb long ago. There's still a peppermint stick up my ass, however. I know because he lubricated it in my mouth and I can feel it burning...and melting. I'm sitting very still on this vinyl chair because if I move the tiniest bit the stickiness will make me shudder. The fact that my lower half is chilling in pool of pre-cum doesn't help matters either, but I've been able to hold my ground so far and I'm pleased.

But soon there is cause for concern. He leaves the room and returns chuckling in a way that makes me nervous. I feel a trail of wet along my shoulder blades and suddenly understand. He's drawing on me! I concentrate on the sensations, trying to tell what he's creating, hoping the marker isn't permanent even though it smells like it is. Wings. I think he draws wings on my upper back...and then an arrow pointing downward along my spine. Forcing me to bend forward, he writes something above my ass, but I can't make it out.

Moving in front to push me upright, he's giggling now, and I try not to cringe as the marker touches my face. My eyebrows are enhanced and an immense bandito mustache goes under my nose, along with accompanying goatee, to much cackling. I believe he turns one nipple into a flower but works too fast to figure out the other side. More unknown decorations adorn my belly and thighs, and not even my cock is spared, becoming striped with a happy face gracing the head.

It's all very silly, and I'm cringing inwardly because I'm sure it will be the death of my skin to scrub the marks off before work tomorrow, but if this is the best he can do there's no way I will lose. I'm feeling uncomfortable but smug, trying not to squirm in the gooey mess I'm sitting in, when the doorbell rings and my blood runs cold.

He saunters to the livingroom while I panic, and yells, “Yo!” into the intercom. There's a pause and he starts laughing. “Oh yeah, I could definitely go for some company. Come on up, you guys.” I hear him buzz the downstairs lock and lose it.

“MUGEN!”

end