Thursday, 24 November 2011

Face Sitting Story! - Face Hopper


Here's a facesitting story that I always read again and again....

 - Face Hopper


CHAPTER 1

He couldn’t move a muscle. All he could do was stare up at the soft toned spot light that shone into his eyes. He tried to turn his head but it was trapped, encased in a rubber like material. They had done something to his throat. It was sore and he felt a strange sensation as he breathed. And then her face appeared above, blocking the light as she moved into his eye line. She was holding a glass of champagne and had a self-satisfied smirk across her face. And then he understood. It had been her all along.

He had been kidnapped the week before and for the first few days they had systematically tortured him until he was a broken man. There must have been seven or eight of them, maybe more, all female. They were brutal women, not from Poland. More like Albania or Bulgaria. Some country like that. He couldn’t be sure but geography didn’t concern him. Survival was his first priority.

They would come into his cell, night and day two or three at a time and lay into him with knotted ropes and cattle prods. Sometimes they would stub their cigarettes out on him or push things into his anus or kick his genitals as hard as they could. They all seemed to enjoy their work. As the days passed they began making him do things like crawl over to them and kiss their feet, or bark like a dog and lick the floor. A couple of the more exuberant girls would make him go on all fours and give them horsey rides around his cell until he would collapse from exhaustion. They would then gleefully beat him some more as a punishment for his failure. Within a week he had signed over all his money and possessions and then to their delight they made him beg to eat their shit. The triumphant women stood watching him, jeering as he was forced to swallow their excrement. Job done. He was ready to go to work.

She took another sip of champagne and looked down at his helpless face. If he didn’t look quite so ridiculous with his face moulded into the bouncy space hopper she might almost have felt sorry for him. He was so in love with her. She smiled to herself at the thought of all the money she’d been paid and felt herself getting wet remembering the video they’d taken of him being tortured. Kaska always loved to see men suffer and boy, had they made him suffer. She stared down at her husband of three months. Although she couldn’t see it she knew they’d cut into his windpipe and placed a breathing tube there to stop him suffocating. Not because they cared whether or not he lived or died but merely for the comfort of the female client pleasuring herself on his mouth and nose. It was all so terribly brutal and for a moment she felt a slight regret. Then he made the mistake of begging for her help. As he tearfully pleaded with her she stopped feeling sorry for him. She hated seeing a man so pathetic. How could he have such little pride in himself, to be reduced to begging for mercy. This guy was such a loser and to think she’d actually stooped so low as having to marry him. His whimpering had become totally annoying so without removing her tight jeans she sat down heavily on his face to shut him up. It worked well and her husband was silenced as her bottom descended and she began to bounce. She bounced on his face harder and harder. This was fun! Her hand disappeared into her jeans and her fingers began to rub her engorged clitoris. The fact that he was so in love with her, and the depth of her betrayal made it even more enjoyable and after ten minutes she had the most fantastic orgasm. She got up and took a last look down at his contorted face. She could see the stitch marks from the pockets of her jeans appear as red lines on his face. She blew him a sarcastic kiss and waved goodbye. It was the last time Kaska Sanderson saw her husband.

Bob Sanderson had met her four months before. Kaska was only twenty three. She was from Poland and very pretty. He was a shy Londoner ten years older. She’d chatted him up in a bar, taken him home with her and fucked him like he’d never been fucked before. Within a month they were married. How could he ever have suspected her motives? How could he have known she’d engineered the whole marriage in order to steal his money and sell him into slavery? The idea was absurd yet here he was. He’d tried to turn his head away when Kaska had sat on his face, but he was stuck fast and his nose eyes and mouth had taken the full force as she had bounced heavily up and down. He’d never dealt with this sort of brutality before and he resigned himself to the thought that he might not survive. Bob prayed for a quick painless death but instead he got Melissa Bennett.

CHAPTER 2

Melissa Bennett had discovered the Femi Bar six months earlier. She was a bright young thing of twenty seven. She had a good job in a public relations company, had a boyfriend, plenty of money, a nice car, but when she visited Poland on a business trip and discovered the Femi Bar, Melissa’s life changed.

Melissa had got herself lost strolling about Warsaw’s back streets and happened upon an unassuming drinking establishment. Having been walking for some time she decided to stop off and have a couple of beers. Melissa assumed it was a lesbian bar because there were only women, no men in the place. She was wrong. The bar lady spoke a little English and Melissa struck up conversation. She found out that the place was called Femi Bar. It was a unique establishment where for a price, ladies with a sexually sadistic streak could indulge in a number of personal fantasies, and the extremity of these fantasies were unlimited depending on how much money these ladies were prepared to spend.

As this was explained, Melissa felt herself get wet and for the first time in her life confided her darkest sexual desire to the bar maid. She was in some unobtrusive backstreet bar in Warsaw. Who was going to find out? Her anonymity was guaranteed. The barmaid smiled and told Melissa that hers was a very common fantasy and the Femi Bar catered for that very thing. Melissa was led into a sterile white tiled room. There was a harsh strip light on the ceiling and the room smelt faintly of bleach. In the centre was a sturdy piece of furniture that locked an unfortunate man into the very position that Melissa had fantasised about for so many years. Seeing a man’s face peering out from the centre of a modified riding saddle, held in place, immobilised. This was a vision she’d masturbated to for so long, and now it was real.

She’d never been more turned on in her life. She touched his face. The face was long and thin, the nose was perfect in size and shape, and the part that thrilled Melissa the most was that his poor helpless little head was totally trapped in a facing up position just level with her knees, and whatever she chose to do to him, nobody that she knew would ever find out. As these thoughts went through her head she removed her trousers. Her knickers were soaked. She looked down at him and fingered herself. She threw a leg over and straddled his face. In one swift move she pulled her sodden knickers to one side, opened her bum cheeks and without shame placed her naked anus onto his mouth and banged him once on the head as the barmaid had instructed her. Immediately his tongue snaked into her anus. She arched her back and pushed down hard causing his nose to slide up her cunt and for the next five minutes Melissa Bennett fucked the strangers face as hard as she could. She pounded away oblivious to anything but her own pleasure. Her orgasm was mind blowing. She sat for a couple of minutes longer recovering and enjoying his desperate struggle for breath before a polite knock on the door signalled her time was up. She pulled on her trousers and went back to the bar without so much as a glance at the battered face she’d just fucked so hard. The bar was pretty quiet. After such a mind blowing experience Melissa couldn’t understand why the place was so empty. If she could only convince the owners to let her do some promotional work for them she was certain it wouldn’t be empty for much longer. Melissa Bennett knew a good business opportunity when she saw one.

The Femi Bar, it turned out, was owned by three Albanian women. They ran an all female gang dealing drugs in Albania and Italy. The gang developed a taste for sexual sadism when punishing criminal rivals and late payers, and so the Femi Bar came to be. Part drugs shop, part money laundering operation, part private sex club, and on the face of it, just another lesbian bar in a down market district of Warsaw. So dangerous and so seedy and so appealing to a middle class English girl in search of adventure and sexual debauchery. Extending her trip Melissa visited the Femi Bar every day making full use of the sexual amenities available. She made it her business to get to know the women who owned the place. Working in PR Melissa knew how to get on with people when she had to, and despite the language difficulties befriended the Albanians. She convinced them of the profit potential and within a fortnight she had become Femi Bar’s new business manager.

The business was by no means straight forward. The most obvious problem was the illegality of the place. Not only did they kidnap, torture and eventually kill a number of unfortunate males, but the bar was also a front for money laundering and selling drugs. Local police were paid off and turned a blind eye but more effective was the fact that some of the clients themselves were either local female politicians and police officers or they were the wives of high ranking officials. This afforded the Femi Bar a huge level of protection from the law and enabled them to go about their wicked business unhindered.

The kidnapped men, or meat as they were referred to, were mainly from Italy and Albania. When Melissa first visited the Femi Bar, there were three unfortunates who indulged the perverted pleasures of the female clientele. One, as first discovered by Melissa, was used for oral sex, another was locked face up in a commode and used as a toilet, and the third was an object for torture, and depending on how much money changed hands, mutilation and murder. Life expectancy could be numbered in days, sometimes hours, so there was always a need to find a constant source of fresh meat. Being the practical woman that she was, Melissa came up with a brilliant idea. She recruited pretty young Polish girls to target single males from all over the world. These men would have little if no family, few friends and plenty of money. On a global basis there was a plentiful supply of this type of male. Now, not only did Femi Bar have a near endless source of new victims, but each new victim brought in wads of cash.

Within a few months Melissa had increased the Femi Bar’s profits a thousand fold. It had been Melissa’s idea to hugely expand the number of male victims available to Femi Bar’s clients. It had been her idea to sell videos of them being tortured and abused. It had been her idea to decorate the place in a more tasteful and female friendly way. It had been her idea to attract an international clientele and to promote the wildest hen parties on the planet. But her greatest idea of all and the one that had brought the most women through the doors was the face hopper. It was a stroke of genius.

Melissa, along with a large percentage of Femi Bar’s customers absolutely loved sitting on men’s faces. The problem had been that clients often got carried away and either suffocated their “face seats” or broke too many skulls and facial bones. There were also complaints that the oral sex slaves weren’t being consistent with their tongues because of their constant struggle to breathe. The face seats themselves were easy to replace but if they were able to breathe consistently and if their survival time was extended, the face seats became more skilled at pleasuring Femi Bar’s clientele. A few selected victims needed to be kept alive longer whilst making sure not to detract from the customers fun and natural exuberance. Inserting a breathing tube into their wind pipes was an obvious move but Melissa’s big idea was to also have the unfortunate males head somehow incorporated into a big bouncy ball, like a fit ball in a gym or the space hoppers from the seventies.

One of Femi Bar’s many new clients from the United States was an artist who worked with rubber and after listening to Melissa’s idea, she made the Face Hopper. It looked incredible, like a short bench with a large bouncy ball incorporated at one end. The victim was locked into the bench unable to move. The back of his head was held firmly in place and his face protruded from the top of the bouncy ball forming a convenient seat or saddle. There were two handles on the side of the ball for the “face rider” to grab onto. The entire contraption was moulded from a blue translucent rubber-like material and once inflated the Face Hopper worked better than could ever have been imagined. It was an instant hit. Stunning to look at and so much fun to use. Melissa had three built.

CHAPTER 3

Bob Sanderson was going to be Melissa’s pet project. Melissa had plans for her newly acquired Englishman. In a way he was lucky. It wasn’t like he was one of those poor fuckers in the toilets or even worse, in the torture chambers. She looked down at him and felt herself dampen at the thought of breaking him in. One of the perks of the job. Melissa attached the obedience electrodes and began his painful tuition in the art of pleasuring a woman, but it was more than just that. He was to be trained for a niche market. Bob Sanderson would be the first interactive face seat catering to an international clientele.

Apart from teaching him how to orally service the paying punters, Melissa’s idea was to train him almost like an English butler, calling the clients ma’am, speaking to order. The other male slaves at the Femi Bar were forbidden to speak, but for Bob it would be different. She knew that this would go down a storm with the hen parties. He’d be forced to thank clients for the abuse they meted out to him and he’d be made to beg for more on order. And whatever they wanted, he’d have to say yes ma’am, no ma’am, three bags full ma’am. Melissa loved this idea and simple though it was, the “yes ma’am man” as Bob was to become known, proved yet another huge financial success for the Femi Bar.

The first hen party to use the yes ma’am man had a great night. It was an astute bit of PR by Melissa. They’d come all the way from Australia, a group of six. One of the bridesmaids ran a popular internet blog promoting the abuse of men by women, and Melissa had offered an all expenses paid trip in return for a positive write up on the website. The bride to be and her friends had a great time bouncing on Bob’s face, and as the evening progressed they became increasingly more lewd and raucous. Fuelled by free drink and drugs the girls had what they all agreed was the best night of their lives. They all liked him begging for stuff and he had to sound convincing. He had to beg them to fuck his face, to allow him to lick them out, to allow him to give them a good rimming. And then, when he’d done his job, he’d have to thank them for the honour. As with most parties that would use him in the future, the girls would always find the whole scenario most amusing. It was less about sexual fulfilment, although that definitely played a part. It became more about having a laugh with your mates.

Bob, and also Melissa quickly learnt that groups of drunken girls inevitably found toilet humour the funniest. The Australian girls taught him his first lesson. They were all drinking heavily and every time one of them needed a piss Bob was made to beg to be allowed the honour of serving as a urinal. They would squat over his mouth and make him swallow it all but as they got drunker, they would sway more, pissing all over his face. They kept calling the cleaning girl to wipe him up. She was called into the room eight times. Melissa made a mental note to employ more cleaning ladies. She sensed that the day to day running of an increasingly busy Femi Bar would be a messy business, especially for the new yes ma’am face hopper. When the Aussie girls had finished Bob was forced to thank them for allowing him the honour of being their toilet. The joyfully drunk hen party left the room laughing their heads off.

The brides maid who ran the website especially enjoyed the way he could be made to say anything they might find amusing and the ensuing write up was glowing in it’s praise for the Femi Bar and it’s yes ma’am face hopper. The positive publicity ensured an ever increasing number of sadistic and perverse women who would keep Bob busy in his new job for a long time to come. They would fly in from all over the world, groups of girls and women out to have their fannies and arses licked and to have a bit of a laugh.

Day after day they came to use him. Group after group. For each party of girls that used the face hopper a truly debauched night of sadistic fun and sexual fulfilment was guaranteed. For Bob it was humiliation and foul debasement of the crudest and often most disgusting kind. Cleaners were always at hand and kept busy wiping his constantly soiled face with perfumed disinfectant wipes. After each group had finished the room was cleaned and made ready for the next clients. Femi Bar employed it’s cleaning ladies from Albania, rural peasants who jumped at the chance of any kind of work in a major European city.

It was their job to clean and take care of the face hoppers along with the other doomed male victims. When the Femi Bar was closed they stayed on the premises to feed, clean, exercise and resuscitate the tortured and broken men. Their unprecedented access to the men at Femi Bar gave them a very real power of life or death. These were completely uneducated females from remote and very much male dominated villages in Albania. Most of them had been abused by men all their lives. Suddenly, absolute power had been placed into the hands of these simple peasant girls and it brought out a deeply engrained hatred of men. This was manifested in a grim cruelty over their charges. Some of the men suffered terribly under their hands. Bob managed to avoid the severest treatment by making sure his tongue and mouth kept them sexually pleasured. Before they left their villages, receiving oral sex was never considered. Bob’s well trained tongue was a new pleasure they never tired of. Other males fared less well.

The men that served in the Femi Bar as torture victims, toilets and oral pleasure seats had once lived lives. They had jobs, hopes and ambitions. They’d laughed. Now they were chattels. Expendable assets in a cash rich and very profitable business. Bob was lucky. The cleaners liked his servile ways and his strange language. More importantly he was Melissa’s pet project and the cleaners knew better than to piss off one of the managers. Other more expendable men were selected and the cleaning ladies would often spend a gruesome evening torturing them to death. It didn’t bother the owners of Femi Bar. A good turnover of men was good for business. Another bank account to plunder, another “Breaking Them In” DVD to sell on the internet.

One horrific cruelty practised by the cleaning staff involved taping the mouth of one of the commode slaves. The flusher was disabled and because he was unable to swallow the sewage, he slowly drowned in an ever rising level of piss and shit. A lot of the nastier clients loved to contribute to his early and foul demise and they were willing to pay. These special toilets became a feature and the cleaning staff were given a percentage of the extra income. The Femi Bar was a fair and happy place to work if you were female.

CHAPTER 4

As days passed into weeks Bob became almost numb to the awful abuse that was dealt out to him. It always started the same. He would hear the girls open the door and within seconds they were all gathered around looking down at him, talking excitedly to each other and generally laughing a lot. He always looked straight up making sure not to catch anyone’s eye. Melissa would introduce Bob and he would have to recite the welcome speech that Melissa had made him learn. It went something like this.

“Welcome to the Femi Bar. Thank you for coming to use the face hopper. I am here to ensure that you all have a fantastic time. My sole aim is to please you. Please use me in any way that gives you pleasure. I will do whatever I’m told. It is truly an honour to serve you.”

The clients loved it. Melissa would congratulate the bride to be or the birthday girl, whatever, and then as an extra touch she would tell the girls that if they had any complaints about the service, to just let her know, and the face hopper would be severely punished. It highlighted to the clients their total power. The final touch in a brilliant marketing strategy. Then Melissa left the room and Bob was left to the mercy of the party.

It was the little things that kept Bob sane. Different parties treated him in different ways and different girls had different preferences. As his experience grew he formed a list of categories to describe the types that used him. There were shy girls, and girls that felt a little embarrassed who were just going along with their friends. Most of his clients loved having oral sex but it was rarely that simple for Bob. The girls that visited the Femi Bar liked to take advantage of Bob’s helpless position. The nastier they were, the more of a laugh they all had. It was about having fun by making the face hopper suffer. There was the dirty knickers brigade and the pissy chicks. There were face fuckers, face farters, arse lickers and a host of other sub-categories. In his mind the game was to work out the types before Melissa left the room. Sometimes this was easy and sometimes not. Most groups were a mixture of all sorts.

The best he could hope for were the shy girls. Girls that were all a little embarrassed, each taking turns in tentatively perching on his face and bouncing a little. They would drink quite conservatively and the most arduous task Bob was made to perform was perhaps to give oral sex to a few of them. These girls would be polite, almost apologetic. Bob wished all the girls who used him were like this, but they weren’t. Most of the girls that frequented the Femi Bar were far from shy.

Drink played a big part in any party. The more the girls drank, the rougher it was for Bob. If they snorted cocaine it was even worse. Most of the girls that sat on Bob’s face wanted a bit of a sexual thrill and a good laugh. Both were had at Bob’s expense. One group he remembered had the words “Lisa’s hen party. Kiss my ass!” printed on the seat of their knickers. Lisa’s hen party was a group of five girls from Houston Texas. They’d travelled all the way to Poland just to have a go on the face hopper. They loved Bob’s English accent and made him tell each of them how beautiful they were. They were all over weight and none too attractive but Bob was made to describe their beauty in great detail. Each time he stuttered or paused the girl whose great beauty he was describing would take her turn in dropping down as heavily as possible on his face and then taking a drink of tequila followed by lemonade, and then vigorously bouncing to “shake the cocktail.”

As the Texan gals got drunker their eager fingers pulled the gusset of their knickers aside and Bob’s tongue was put to good use. Unusually none of the girls in Lisa’s hen party actually removed any undergarments. The special hen party knickers stayed on all night. The girls ended the evening very drunk taking turns in getting Bob to “kiss their cute Texan asses goodbye.” He never did find out why none of them removed their knickers. Some sort of pre-hen party pact Bob guessed. It was the easiest night he would have for a long time.

Knickers played a big part in Bob’s new life. There were some groups of girls, usually younger, early or mid twenties, that Bob identified as the dirty knickers brigade. Sometimes he knew as soon as they gathered round him. He could smell. They were usually British, sometimes Australian also Indians. They’d snigger or laugh and glance at each other knowingly as he gave his welcome speech and promised his complete obedience.

It was only Bob’s second day imprisoned in the face hopper and he was still in a state of terrified shock. It was to be his first experience of the dirty knickers brigade. This particular foursome were drug dealers from the north of England, all big girls, connected to the Albanian gangsters who owned Femi Bar. They were a tight knit gang who wanted to celebrate their mate’s twenty seventh birthday by having “a right fucking laugh.”

As he recited his welcome speech to the smirking girls he caught the smell of stale urine and as soon as Melissa left the room, one of the girls explained how they’d had a dirty knickers competition and he was to be the judge. Bob instinctively replied “yes ma’am. It will be a great honour for me.”

When the four girls from Manchester had finished laughing, they pulled off their jeans and tights and extremely well soiled panties. Each girl made him sniff the most heavily soiled part of her own particular entry into the dirty knickers competition. Fuelled with alcohol and cocaine the girls explained to Bob how many days they’d worn their knickers. They lovingly showed him each piss stain and skid mark, trying to make each other laugh with just how crude and vile they could be. The birthday girl had a pair of large cotton knickers with a Union Jack design. She’d worn them for five days and slept in them too. He couldn’t believe anyone could be so filthy. He would soon learn this level of filth was normal in his new job. The gusset was dark yellow and there were two really nasty brown stains slightly further back. The very drunk and drugged up birthday girl dragged the offending garment over Bob’s nose. The stink was awful and Bob retched. The girls cheered and he retched again as she forced him to closely inspect the terrible skid marks at the back. “Guess who gets to clean them” she said to him. The girls were finding it all very funny but the biggest laugh of the night was when they actually made him beg to be given the honour of mouth washing the heavily stained items.

The birthday girl pushed her knickers into his mouth. She warned Bob that he’d better get the stains out or she’d complain about him. Bob tried desperately to clean them as she sat naked on his masticating jaw and snorted a big line of cocaine. As the drug took effect she manoeuvred her rather dirty and smelly bottom over his nose and dropped down. A few seconds later she released a loud and smelly fart. Bob was too shocked to hear the hysterical laughter above. The fart had rasped across his face and he was gagging from the stench that shot straight up his nose. He tasted the shit and piss from the knickers and gagged again. He was desperate not to be sick otherwise he’d surely choke. The girl sitting on his face was laughing too much to care. She farted again. Then she got up and another girl took her place on the face hopper. For the next three hours his face was relentlessly pounded. He was degraded and abused in an endless variety of vile and filthy ways. A perfect prelude to his future life at the Femi Bar. He tried to blank out the horror by thinking of other things but this only led to even greater fears. Bob’s mind drifted to thoughts about the girls and women he’d known back in London. He found himself wondering which of them might visit a place such as the Femi Bar. 

2 comments:

  1. tombbrevin@gmail.com27 June 2012 at 14:46

    WOW,amazing story,so hot..I wish I worked there....well except for the dying part..that would suck

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