Jane & Matt : Officer Jane's Interrogation. F/M
Posted: Fri Oct 17, 2025 9:43 pm
Here's the next instalment of the Jane & Matt saga.
The first can be found here :
Jane & Matt : The Court of Jane. F/M - Stories of Tie Up Games https://share.google/V2j8satCUUnXM9n5v
The dull ache in Matt’s shoulders was the first thing to register, followed by the cold, unyielding bite of steel around his wrists. He was seated on one of their hard-backed dining chairs in the middle of the living room, his hands cuffed securely behind him. All he wore was a pair of soft grey joggers, leaving his torso bare. The late afternoon sun slanted through the bay window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air and highlighting the utter absurdity of his situation.
The click-clack of heels on the hardwood floor of the hallway announced her arrival. It was a sharp, authoritative sound that made the muscles in his back tense. He twisted his neck as she entered the room, and his breath caught in his throat, a jolt of pure,
unadulterated lust hitting him squarely in the chest.
Jane didn't just walk; she patrolled. She was every bit the fantasy cop from a late-night movie, and the sight of her sent a wave of heat crashing through him. The ridiculously short black mini skirt hugged her hips, and the sheer black tights traced every delectable curve of her calves and thighs, disappearing into the shadows beneath the hem. A tight black vest top, zipped halfway, stretched across her chest, promising more than it showed and showcasing the swell of her breasts. Perched atop her head at a jaunty, intimidating angle was a black-and-white police cap, its silver badge glinting in the sun. She looked magnificent, powerful, and so incredibly sexy it made his mouth go dry.
She circled him slowly, tapping a long, black plastic ruler against her thigh. "Matthew Allen Sterling," she said, her voice a low, clipped monotone. "You're in a whole heap of trouble, son."
Matt smirked, a spark of defiance in his eyes even as the heat pooled in his groin. "I don't know what you're talking about, Officer. I'm an innocent man."
"That's what they all say," she scoffed, stopping directly in front of him. "But the evidence is overwhelming. The Dishwasher Crimes Unit has been building a case. We've got you dead to rights on multiple violations of the Domestic Appliance Accord of 2023."
He met her gaze defiantly.
"The.... the what? You've got nothing," he blustered, trying to hide a smile. "It's all circumstantial. I was framed."
"Framed?" she repeated, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "By who? The rogue Tupperware syndicate? Let's review the charges, shall we? Exhibit A: Improper utensil stacking. You created a 'cuddling' formation with no fewer than six teaspoons."
"A desperate attempt to conserve space! A civic-minded act!" he protested.
"Silence!" she barked, tapping the ruler against his knee. "Exhibit B: Placing a cheese-encrusted lasagna dish on the top rack. The top rack, Sterling! Are you an animal?"
"That dish had a right to see the world from a different perspective!"
"And the final, most damning piece of evidence," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Exhibit C: Failure to pre-rinse a bowl containing solidified Weetabix. Forensics came back this morning. The structural integrity of that oat-based cement you created was strong enough to build a load-bearing wall. It took a chisel and a harsh word to remove it. You can't talk your way out of this one."
He lifted his chin. "You'll get nothing from me, copper. I'm not confessing."
Jane stared at him for a long, silent moment, her entire demeanour shifting from interrogator to something colder, more procedural.
"Alright, Sterling. Have it your way. Interview suspended. We're transferring you to a holding cell pending a more… persuasive line of questioning."
She unlocked the cuffs from the back of the chair then swiftly applied them back to his wrists and, grabbing his bicep, hauled him to his feet. She marched him into their bedroom, the 'holding cell' looking suspiciously soft and inviting. "On the bed. On your back," she commanded, pushing him down firmly.
He lay back, the cool cotton of the duvet a stark contrast to the nervous heat building inside him. "Roll to a side." she ordered.
Jane unlocked the cuffs from behind his back only to immediately pull his arms straight up above his head. With two decisive clicks, she snapped the steel bracelets shut again, this time securing his wrists together around the heavy top rail of their wooden headboard. He was pinned, his arms stretched above him, his chest and stomach exposed.
"Right," she said,as she dropped the cuff key inbetween her cleavage, her voice all business.
"We're going to need these for evidence." Before he could protest, she hooked her fingers into the waistband of his joggers and yanked them down his legs and off completely. "They'll need to be checked for forensic traces. Possible splash-back DNA from the dishwasher handle."
Completely naked and exposed, he felt a hot blush creep up his neck. His erection strained upwards, a blatant, shameless salute to her authority. Jane produced a length of black rope and, with practiced efficiency, tied his ankles together before securing them to the bottom rail of the bed.
She stood back, surveying her work. "Enjoy your incarceration, Stirling."
With that, she turned and left, the click of the door latch echoing in the sudden silence.
Closing the bedroom door behind her, Jane let out a slow, satisfied breath. The severe mask of the interrogator slipped away, replaced by a wide, genuine grin. A thrill of absolute control hummed through her. It may only be a game, but seeing Matt stretched out like that, so defiant in his words but so utterly surrendered in his body, was the most potent aphrodisiac she could imagine.Roleplay or not, he was, once again, absolutely helpless and totaly at her mercy.
The game was going perfectly. She walked into the kitchen, the ridiculous police cap still perched on her head, and filled the kettle. The sheer domesticity of the act—making a cup of tea while her husband was cuffed to their bed awaiting further questioning—sent a fresh wave of delighted amusement through her. This was what made it all so perfect. She was both the terrifying officer of the law and the woman who knew he preferred Earl Grey. She let the teabag steep, savoring the quiet moment, deliberately drawing out the suspense for both of them.
Fifteen minutes later, she re-entered the bedroom, mug in hand, the very picture of calm authority. Her persona had shifted to that of a friendly detective.
"Alright, Sterling.I'm here to help make things easier for you,so let's talk," she said, her voice smooth. She sat on the edge of the bed, and Matt’s eyes were drawn to the way the short skirt rode up her thighs, the sheer black fabric a tantalizing veil over her perfect skin. "Look, we know you did it. Just admit you have a fundamental misunderstanding of appliance-based hygiene and we can get you some help."
As she spoke, her free hand began to trace idle patterns across his chest. Every light touch was a spark against the fuse of his desire. "This can all go very easy for you, Matt." Her fingers drifted lower, dancing over his stomach before finding a ticklish spot on his ribs. He yelped and arched against the restraints, a strangled laugh erupting from his chest as a fresh wave of heat washed through him.
"Or," she continued, her voice a friendly purr while her fingers continued their torment, "it can be... hard."
Gasping for breath, he managed, "Wait! Stop! Don't I... don't I get my rights read to me?"
Jane paused and took a thoughtful sip of tea. "You're right. Procedural error. Ahem. Matthew Allen Sterling, you have the right to remain silent, but I'll probably just tickle you until you don't. You have the right to an attorney, but he's currently sleeping on the sofa and sheds hair everywhere, so he's not much help.You have the right to stop the interview at any time and walk out of the door, but... " she gestured towards the handcuffs and shrugged." Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?"
Before he could answer, a frantic scratching came from the door, followed by a loud, plaintive "Meeeow!"
Jane sighed theatrically. "Hold that thought. The star witness requires a debriefing." She left the room, and Matt heard her murmur, "Honestly, Detective Mumbles, your timing is impeccable." Jane let the cat out into the garden, refilled his water bowl, and took a moment to look at her reflection in the hall mirror. The woman staring back was a ridiculous, wonderful contradiction. She adjusted the police cap, a predatory glint returning to her eyes. The 'good cop' routine had run its course. It was time to escalate.
When she returned, the mood had shattered. Her police cap was pulled low over her eyes, and in her hand, she once again held the plastic ruler. She was the bad cop.
"Alright, funny man. Playtime is over." She smacked the ruler hard into her free palm. The sharp SMACK made him jump. "I'm going to ask you one more time. The Weetabix. Talk."
He stared up at her and remained stubbornly silent.
The ruler came down with a sharp, stinging CRACK against the top of his right thigh. He gasped, his body jerking against the restraints as a fiery line of heat bloomed on his skin.
"Agh!! No comment! "
CRACK!
This time on his other thigh. He let out a choked groan. A rapid, punishing staccato followed against his thighs. Each sting seemed to bypass pain and travel directly to his groin, making his erection throb with a mixture of agony and ecstasy, until the overwhelming sensations finally broke him.
"Okay! Okay! I did it!" he yelled, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "I confess! The Weetabix, the spoons, the lasagna dish! It was all me! I'm guilty!"
The ruler paused mid-air. "Well well well, a full confession," she murmured, her voice losing its hard edge. She lowered the ruler and delivered one final, sharp SMACK to the side of his arse.
"For wasting police time."
She placed the ruler on the nightstand. "The physical persuasion portion of this interview is now concluded. We now move on to the evidence processing phase."
Holding his gaze, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her sheer black tights. With an agonizing slowness, she peeled them down, the whisper of nylon a symphony to his ears. The sight of her pale, perfect skin being revealed inch by inch was almost too much to bear. She kicked them free and moved up the bed with a predatory grace.
Then, with a slow, deliberate motion that made his breath catch, she straddled his head, her thighs bracketing his face, her body completely blocking his view of the room. He was trapped, his hands still cuffed uselessly above him. His world narrowed to the soft curve of her belly, the swell of her hips, and the dark, musky scent of her arousal.
"The scene is clear for forensic analysis," she commanded, her voice a low vibration that travelled straight through him. "Get to work."
He obeyed, his world narrowing to this single, all-consuming task. Her taste was intoxicating, a reward that completely eclipsed the lingering sting on his skin. This was the true sentence. Jane’s body began to move, her hips rocking in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Her breathing grew ragged, her commands becoming shorter, sharper, punctuated by gasps.
"That's it... process the evidence... good boy..."
Her head rocked back, face pointing at the ceiling but eyes scrunched closed.
She reached down with her left hand and grabbed a handful of his hair, roughly pulling his head further towards her sex, his kicking becoming more frantic.
Matt's fists were now gripping the bed rail he was cuffed to,his knuckles turning white.
"Fuck.... Oh God, just..... Yes!"
With a choked cry that was half command and half surrender, her body convulsed, thighs clamping his head tightly. Her climax washed over her in a powerful, shuddering wave.
Slowly, she relaxed, breathing heavily. She slid off him, landing gracefully on her feet beside the bed. She looked down at his face, slick with her juices, her eyes hazy with pleasure but with the glint of authority already returning.
He was aching, desperate, and still painfully hard. "Officer," he panted, straining against the steel. "What about my rights? Don't I... don't I get a release?"
Jane looked down at him, her expression utterly impassive. "That privilege is not extended to inmates at this facility, Sterling. Consider it suspended, pending review by the parole board."
She gave his throbbing erection a clinical, dismissive glance. "Any unauthorized discharge of evidence will be considered a violation of prison protocol and will result in further disciplinary action."
With a final, devastatingly sexy smirk, she turned and walked out of the room. "Enjoy your incarceration."
The click of the door latch echoed in the sudden silence, leaving him bound, aching, denied, and utterly, completely hers.
The lingering tremors of her orgasm faded slowly, leaving behind a deep, humming satisfaction and a crystalline clarity of thought. Jane closed the bedroom door with a soft click, leaning against it for a moment, a victorious smile playing on her lips. The game was far from over. In fact, the most delicious part was just beginning.
An orgasm for him would be an ending, a full stop. She wasn't interested in endings. She was interested in the story, in the long, drawn-out tension of the second act. Keeping him like this—bound, aching, and desperate—was the entire point. It was a delicate art, pushing him right to the very edge of his control and holding him there for hours, watching the battle between his frustration and his arousal play out across his face. It was in that simmering, suspended state that he was most beautifully, completely hers.
She walked into the living room, the police cap still perched jauntily on her head, and began tidying up the evidence of their earlier interrogation: her teacup went into the dishwasher (correctly loaded, of course), and the ruler was wiped clean and placed back in the desk drawer. Mundane tasks felt thrillingly subversive while her husband was naked and cuffed in the next room. It was this bizarre, perfect duality she loved most.
Now, what next? The parole hearing she’d mentioned was a perfect narrative hook. It required a board, of course. A jury of his peers was out of the question; he had no peers in this. It had to be a panel of unimpeachable character and stern judgment. Her eyes landed on Mr. Mumbles, who was currently batting at a dust bunny under the sofa.
"Detective Mumbles, you're promoted to the parole board," she murmured. He'd be the stoic, silent type. She'd also need Barnaby, the threadbare teddy bear from her childhood who sat on the armchair. He had seen everything and had the cold, unforgiving button eyes to prove it. He could be the chairman.
The hearing would be formal. He would have to plead his case for release from his current state of… tumescence. He’d have to show remorse for his dishwasher crimes. He would have to make promises of future good behaviour. And the board, of course, would find his plea lacking. They would confer, and they would ultimately deny his parole, sentencing him to several more hours of supervised incarceration. The thought sent another delicious shiver of power through her. Yes, that was the plan. Or she could just choose to end his torment and fuck him so hard he'd have trouble remembering his own name.
Decisions, decisions...
She glanced at Mr. Mumbles, now brushing himself up against her bare legs.
"Let the prisoner stew a bit longer, shall we?"
Back in the bedroom slash holding cell, Matt lay utterly still, listening to the sounds of Jane moving through the house. The clink of a cup, the soft thud of a drawer closing. Each normal, everyday noise was a form of exquisite torture, a reminder that while her world continued, his was paused, locked in this state of heightened, agonizing anticipation.
His body was a warzone of conflicting sensations. The lingering sting on his thighs was a dull, warm throb, a physical memory of her punishment. The cold steel of the cuffs was an unyielding anchor, chaining him to his helplessness. And between them, his erection was a defiant, aching monument to her absolute power over him. The frustration was immense, a physical pressure building in his chest and groin, a desperate need for a release she had explicitly forbidden.
But beneath the frustration, woven through it so tightly they were inseparable, was a profound and exhilarating arousal. This was the core of their games. This was the magic. He loved this feeling of being completely out of his own control, of handing the reins of his body and his pleasure over to her. He didn't have to think, to decide, to perform. He only had to feel, to react, to obey.
And her outfits… God, her outfits.
They were the key that unlocked everything. The severe barrister's wig and lacy babydoll; the stern librarian glasses paired with a pencil skirt so tight it was a miracle she could walk; the imperious headmistress in tweed and stockings. Each costume was a signal, a transformation from Jane, his funny, loving wife, into the character she was playing, a woman with absolute authority. Today’s sexy-cop uniform was a masterpiece, a perfect blend of power and raw, undisguised fantasy that had him captivated from the moment she walked in.
He thought back to their other games. There was the time she'd played a merciless art critic, critiquing his "technique" in household chores and assigning "corrective physical therapy." Or the sci-fi captain, sentencing him to the "recalibration chamber" for insubordination, using her Love Honey purple Jessica Rabbit vibrator as an "alien probe" that had left him buzzing for hours. Each scenario was more creative than the last, a testament to the brilliant, kinky mind of the woman he’d married.
He knew this was her favourite part: the long, slow burn. The denial was as much a part of the game as the punishment or the eventual reward. He had no idea what she was planning next, what absurd, wonderful scenario she was constructing in the other room. He only knew that when she returned, she would have a new role to play, and he would be her willing, frustrated, and desperately eager audience of one. The waiting was hell. And he wouldn't have it any other way.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Jane's tea was a pleasant, grounding ritual, but the real sustenance was the anticipation thrumming through her veins. She placed the empty mug in the sink and adjusted her police cap in the reflection of the microwave door. The 'bad cop' had served her purpose: a confession was secured. Now, it was time for the next phase, the one that required a subtler, more insidious form of control. It was time to play the system.
She pushed the bedroom door open and walked in with a newfound air of bureaucratic efficiency. Matt’s eyes snapped to her immediately, wide and wary. His body was a testament to her work—the faint red marks on his skin, the rigid tension in his muscles, and the defiant, painfully hard erection that told her everything she needed to know. He was a tightly coiled spring, and she was about to enjoy winding it even tighter.
She walked to the side of the bed, her hips swaying with a slow, deliberate motion she knew he couldn't ignore. She watched his eyes track her every move, taking in the long, elegant lines of her bare legs, the way the tiny skirt struggled to maintain its modesty. She looked down at him, her expression a careful blend of sympathy and official duty.
"Okay, Sterling," she began, her voice low and confidential. "I've been speaking with the DA. Off the record."
She let that hang in the air as she leaned over him, giving him a perfect view down the front of her tightly zipped vest. Her hand drifted down, coming to rest with feigned casualness on his upper thigh, her fingers just brushing against the base of his cock. He flinched, a full-body tremor, and his breath hitched as his erection gave a distinct, telling throb.
"Look, your case isn't good," she continued, her thumb beginning to trace a slow, lazy circle on his skin. "The evidence is overwhelming. But you confessed. That counts for something. It shows a willingness to cooperate."
Her fingers closed around him, a gentle but firm grip. His entire body went rigid, his back arching slightly against the bed. He was so hot, so hard, a perfect conduit for the electricity she was feeding him.
"Here's the deal I can offer," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as she began to stroke him, slowly, deliberately. Each long, smooth slide of her hand was a universe of sensation. "You're scheduled for a parole hearing. It's a tough board. Chairman Barnaby is an old-school traditionalist, and Justice Mumbles… well, he's inscrutable. But if you show the board the proper remorse, if you are respectful and compliant, I can put in a good word. I can suggest a path to rehabilitation."
Her pace quickened slightly, her movements becoming slick with the evidence of his arousal. His hips began to move instinctively, a desperate, silent plea to meet her touch. He was losing himself in the rhythm, the pure, mindless pleasure of her hand.
"Jane..." he gasped. "Please..."
"It's 'Officer'," she corrected softly, her thumb pressing down on the sensitive tip, making him groan. "And I'm trying to help you, Sterling. But you have to work with me. You have to show me you can follow instructions. That you can control yourself."
She pushed him higher, faster, feeling the tension in his body build to an almost unbearable peak. His thighs strained against the ropes, his stomach muscles were corded steel, and his breathing was a series of short, frantic pants. He was right there, on the precipice, the point of no return.
And then, she stopped.
Her hand simply ceased moving, resting lightly on top of him. The sudden absence of motion was a physical shock, more jarring than any blow. The pleasure vanished, replaced by a white-hot, agonizing frustration.
She leaned down, a glint in her eye. "You have to show the board you can be trusted."
He lay still, willing his cock and balls to just push itself over the cliff edge he was so close to tipping over, his body screaming with a phantom pleasure that had been ripped away. It was torture. It was heaven. It was the most intensely frustrating and electrifying feeling he had ever known.
The lack of physical stimulation from Jane's hand stopped him cruelly short of cumming.
His mind was a chaotic storm of need, every nerve ending still singing from her touch, every muscle clenched in a silent, desperate protest.
This was Jane at her most brilliant, her most cruel, her most perfect. It wasn't just about tying him up; it was about this: the psychological warfare, the absolute mastery of his body's responses. She had played him like an instrument, bringing him to a fever pitch only to cut the strings, leaving the note hanging, unresolved, in the air.
Instead of leaving, she stood up, bent down and picked up the sheer black tights she had discarded earlier. He was given a perfect, breathtaking view of her backside, the tight curve of her bum straining against the ridiculously short skirt, a sight so potent it made his cock throb anew with a sharp, painful ache. He held his breath as she straightened up and returned to the bed. With a slow, deliberate movement, she gently draped the worn nylon over his aching erection.
The sensation was electric. The material was impossibly light, almost weightless, yet it felt like a brand. It was silky smooth, still holding the warmth of her body and the faint, intoxicating scent of her perfume. The delicate fabric clung to him, a ghostly second skin that both concealed and accentuated, a constant, teasing caress against his hyper-sensitive skin.
Before he could fully process the new layer of torment, she leaned down and kissed him. The view was overwhelming as she came closer—the intoxicating swell of her breasts above the vest's zipper, the severe line of the police cap, the predatory look in her eyes. It wasn’t a peck, but a deep, dominant kiss that stole his breath and claimed his mouth, a kiss that tasted of tea and victory. As her tongue explored his, her fingers found him again, this time through the silky barrier of the tights. She cupped his balls and tickled them lightly, the nylon sliding against his skin with her movements. The combination was overwhelming: the crushing frustration in his groin, the slick heat of the fabric, the dizzying pleasure of her mouth, and the wicked, playful torment of her fingers.
She broke the kiss, leaving him breathless and dazed.
"I have to attend to some urgent police business," she said, her voice miraculously all professional again. "There's an ongoing surveillance operation monitoring a potential bread-based hostile entity in the toaster. Plus, I need to file a full report on the status of the laundry hamper – it's reaching critical capacity."
She gave him one last, devastatingly smug look. "The parole board will convene in one hour. I suggest you prepare your testimony. They'll be looking for a convincing performance."
She turned and left, the click of the door latch sealing him in with the lingering taste of her kiss, the ghost of her touch, and the silky, scented reminder of her authority draped over his aching cock. The waiting was hell. And he wouldn't have it any other way.
The "important police business" Jane had to attend to was, in fact, toast. Two perfectly golden-brown slices had just popped from the toaster, and the rich, comforting smell filled the kitchen. She reached for the butter dish on the counter, her mind still buzzing with the thrill of her victory over Matt, only to find it empty save for a few pathetic, unspreadable crumb encrusted blobs.
"For God's sake," she muttered to the empty room. A domestic crisis in the middle of a high-stakes interrogation. She needed butter. The good, salted kind from the little farm shop across the road. The thought of delaying the game was irritating, but the thought of dry toast was a crime against breakfast.
A slow, wicked grin spread across her face as an idea began to form, a perfect fusion of domestic necessity and disciplinary innovation. He was a flight risk, after all. A known perpetrator of appliance-based felonies. He couldn't be left unsupervised without the proper precautions.
She strode back to the bedroom, her heels clicking with renewed purpose. Matt looked up, his eyes a mixture of hope and dread.
"Change of plans, Sterling," she announced, her voice crisp and official. "I've been called away on an urgent, off-site situation. A high-priority asset needs to be secured. I should be back in about twenty minutes."
His eyes widened in panic as he realised she was serious. "Twenty minutes? Jane, you can't just—"
She ignored him completely. Instead, her gaze dropped to his groin, and the wicked idea solidified into a concrete plan. "Protocol dictates that a prisoner of your risk level cannot be left unattended without a tracking device," she stated, her voice deadpan. She moved to the bedside table and opened the top drawer, retrieving a small, black silicone ring with a silver nub on top. His vibrating cock ring.
Matt's eyes widened in horrified understanding. "Jane... no... Officer, please, don't leave me with that on, not in my state!"
"Silence from the prisoner," she said coolly, holding up the device as if it were a standard-issue piece of police equipment. She then picked up the discarded tights current draped over his penis and balls.
"First, we have to secure the asset."
With a firm, surprisingly gentle touch, she took hold of his erection. He gasped as she carefully, methodically, threaded him into the open leg of the tights, encasing him completely in the sheer nylon tube. The sensation was maddening—confining, silky, and amplifying his every throb. Once he was fully sheathed, she stretched the vibrating ring and snapped it into place at his base, on top of the nylon.
"Standard-issue electronic monitoring tag," she explained, her face a mask of professional seriousness. "It monitors the prisoner's vitals." She flicked the switch.
The effect was instantaneous and brutal. A deep, relentless hum started up, sending powerful vibrations not directly onto his skin, but through the silky, confining barrier of the tights. It wasn't a sharp pleasure designed to bring him to a quick end; it was a broad, buzzing, inescapable wave of stimulation that promised to keep him perpetually on the very brink of orgasm. He bucked against the ropes, a strangled groan tearing from his throat.
"No, please... turn it off!" he begged, his voice strained.
She turned to the wardrobe, completely deaf to his pleas. She unzipped the miniskirt and let it fall to the floor, revealing she was completely bare underneath. The sight of her, the severe vest top and police cap contrasting with the raw, unexpected nakedness of her lower body, was a gut punch of pure lust that left him breathless.
She went to her drawer and pulled out a pair of full back, dark crimson lace knickers. With a slow, deliberate movement that was pure performance, she stepped into them, shimmying the delicate fabric up over her incredible, rounded bum and settling them on her hips.
Then, she pulled on a pair of form-fitting jeans. They were old and soft, faded in all the right places, and they hugged her every curve like a second skin. The snug denim accentuated the swell of her bum and the gentle curve of her hips, transforming her from a fantasy cop into the impossibly sexy girl next door.
"Have to go plain-clothed for this operation," she said, buttoning the jeans with a decisive snap. "Need to blend in with the civilian population."
She walked back to the bed and leaned over him, her face inches from his. "Now, you listen to me, Sterling," she whispered, her voice dangerously low. "This tag monitors for any... unauthorised discharges. If it registers a full confession before I get back, the parole board won't just deny your release. They'll double your sentence. And the enhanced interrogation will resume with equipment that makes that little ruler look like a child's toy. Do you understand me?"
He could only nod, his body trembling with the effort of resisting the relentless vibrations.
She gave him one last look, a devastatingly smug smile playing on her lips. "Be a good boy. I'll be back soon."
The front door clicked shut, and he was left alone. Alone with the deep, maddening hum vibrating through his core, the scent of her perfume rising from the nylon prison encasing his cock, and the terrifying, thrilling challenge of holding himself together until his beautiful, cruel, perfect wife got back from buying butter.
He was a prisoner in his own body, trapped by steel and rope, and now, by this maddening electronic tormentor. The vibrations weren't sharp or direct enough to offer the clean, simple promise of an orgasm; they were a broad, buzzing, inescapable wave of stimulation that saturated every nerve ending.The position of the ring meant it wasn't anywhere near the head of his cock, which would probably be enough to make him cum.
He was a surfer perpetually balanced on the crest of a wave that refused to break, a tightrope walker frozen mid-step over a canyon of release. His orgasm was right there, a shimmering mirage just inches away, yet a thousand miles out of reach.
His body was a traitor. Every throb of the vibrating ring was met with a desperate, involuntary clench of his muscles. His hips strained against the ropes binding his ankles, a futile attempt to grind against something, anything, to push himself over the edge. But there was nothing. Only the slick, confining nylon and the endless, maddening buzz. The frustration was a physical thing, a burning ache that started in his balls and spread through his entire body, coiling in his stomach like a hot snake.
He tested his bonds again, a desperate, primal need to do something. He pulled his hands, but the steel cuffs didn't give a millimetre, their cold bite a stark reminder of his helplessness. The chain rattled softly against the wooden headboard, a pathetic sound in the quiet room. He strained against the ropes on his ankles. They were perfect. Taut, expertly tied, with no slack to exploit. Of course they were. Jane was nothing if not thorough.
Suddenly, a new sound cut through the haze, sharp and intrusive.
The minutes ticked agonisingly by. How long had it been now?
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK.
A heavy, official-sounding rap on the front door. A bolt of pure, ice-cold panic shot through him, instantly overriding the arousal. Who was that? It wasn't Jane; she had a key. The sheer, naked vulnerability of his position crashed down on him. He was cuffed. Naked. With a vibrating cock ring buzzing away under a pair of his wife's tights.
The knocking came again, louder this time. He held his breath, praying they would go away. He heard the rumble of a van engine idling. A delivery. Oh, God. A delivery driver at the door while he was trussed up like this. The thought was mortifying. He heard footsteps on the gravel path, walking away, and allowed himself a brief, shaky sigh of relief.
Jane walked up the path, brownie in one hand, butter and milk in the other, a smug smile of satisfaction on her face. She saw the delivery van parked at the curb and a young, flustered-looking driver with a large cardboard box halfway back to his vehicle.
"Oh, sorry!" he called out, turning around. "No one answered."
"No problem, you've caught me just in time," Jane said, her voice warm and easy. She shifted her shopping to one arm, and the movement pulled the tight vest taut across her chest. The driver's eyes flickered down for a fraction of a second before snapping back to her face, a faint blush creeping up his neck.
"Big package," he said, handing it over. It was heavier than it looked.
Jane took it with a grin, her eyes glittering with private amusement. "Oh, I always know how to handle a package! " she purred, followed by a Barbra Windsor style cheeky laugh.
The double meaning hung in the air, and the driver’s blush deepened,even though he was far too young to have even heard of any Carry On films.
He fumbled with his electronic scanner. "Right. Well. Have a... have a good one."
"You too," Jane said, giving him a slow, deliberate smile that she knew was doing absolutely nothing to cool him down. She watched him practically flee back to his van before turning and letting herself into the house.
She walked with an exaggerated sway of her buttocks, knowing there was a fairly high chance Mr Amazon was oggling her. The contrast between that fleeting, flirty power and the absolute power she wielded in the bedroom was utterly delicious.
Back in the kitchen, she saw the two slices of toast she’d made earlier, now cold and sad on the counter. Collateral damage. She tossed them in the bin and put two fresh slices in, humming to herself. When they popped, she buttered them liberally and ate them standing at the counter, savoring every bite. The game could wait for toast.
Finally, her errand and snack complete, she strode back to the bedroom. Matt was a wreck, his body trembling, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. The sight filled her with a profound sense of accomplishment.
"Good news, Sterling," she announced, her voice brisk and official again. "The board has agreed to move up your parole hearing. It will commence in five minutes."
She leaned over him, and with a decisive click, switched off the vibrating ring.
Matt gasped, his body going limp with a relief so profound it was almost painful. The sudden, absolute silence was a shock after the relentless buzzing. But the relief was fleeting. As the ghost of the vibration faded, it was replaced by a new, even worse form of torment: a hollow, desperate ache. The over-stimulation had been maddening, but this—this complete absence of sensation when his body was screaming for it—was a deeper, more profound kind of hell.
She bent and examined his nylon clad cock,running a finger nail from the base to the head of his penis.
Jane watched the wave of fresh despair wash over his face. "Let the record show the electronic monitoring tag has been deactivated,and the detained has shown no signs of discharge. " she stated coolly. "The prisoner is prepped for his hearing. You will address the board with respect. You will answer their questions truthfully. Any insolence will be noted and will have... severe repercussions on your final sentencing."
She straightened up, the perfect picture of an officer of the court. "Prepare yourself, prisoner. The board is on its way."
With a dramatic about turn, she purposely strode out of the room,picking up her skirt on the way out.
He heard her enter the spare bedroom, the soft rustle of clothes signalling another transformation. When she stepped back into the bedroom, the casual, jean-clad woman who had left for butter was gone. In her place, once again, was the impossibly sexy police officer. She had changed back into the ridiculously short mini skirt and tight black vest, a clear signal that her off-duty time was over. On her nose, however, she had added a pair of stern, black-rimmed glasses, a small change that shifted her entire persona from a flirty street cop to a terrifyingly beautiful official of the Court.Her cap was gone and her long, dark hair was pilled up into a stylish, dramatic bun. The power shift was so potent it made his cock give a hard, painful throb beneath its silky prison.
With great ceremony, she walked to the armchair, picked up Barnaby the teddy bear, and placed him on the dressing table chair, facing the bed. "Chairman Barnaby," she announced to the empty room. She then scooped up a purring Mr. Mumbles, who had followed her in, and deposited him on the foot of the bed. "And Justice Mumbles."
She turned to Matt, her face an unreadable mask of judicial seriousness. "The parole hearing of inmate Sterling is now in session," she declared, her voice crisp and clear. "You will plead your case for release from your current state of… incarceration. Let me be clear. If you satisfactorily meet the board's requirements for remorse and rehabilitation, you can expect... relief." She let the word hang in the air, a shimmering promise. "However, if you fail, you're looking at a very long stretch indeed." She paused, her eyes trailing from his cuffed wrists to his bound ankles. "Though, from my perspective, you're already quite... stretched."
After a series of gruelling questions about the specific nature of his crimes against crockery and his plans for a future of considerate rinsing she stood, and after a dramatic pause announced " That concludes your hearing. The board will now adjourn to consider its verdict." She ceremoniously picked up the cat and the bear and left the room.
The minutes she was gone felt like an eternity. When she returned, her face was impassive. She walked slowly to the side of the bed, the mini skirt forcing a hypnotic rhythm into her stride. She looked down at him, her glasses perched on the end of her nose.
"The board has deliberated," she said, her voice a low murmur. "In light of your testimony, your apparent remorse, and your… compelling physical arguments… they have decided to grant your parole."
"Oh! Thank fu...."
"DO NOT MAKE ME PUNISH YOU FURTHER FOR CONTEMPT OF COURT, MR STERLING!", Jane bellowed, startling Mr Mumbles who darted out of the door.
"Sorry, Ma'am, please accept my apologies." Matt was actually quite sincere in his remorse, the last thing he wanted was to be left tied to the bed for another couple of hours whilst Jane retreated to watch The Celebrity Traitors or something.
Jane leaned down, a wicked glint in her eyes. "The court requires absolute obidience, Mr Stirling. However, your apology is accepted. Now. Parole, inmate, doesn't mean freedom," she whispered, her voice a silken threat. "It means supervised release."
Her fingers went to his groin. First, she carefully removed the now-deactivated vibrating ring, setting it aside for a moment. Then, with an agonizing slowness, she began to peel the silky tights from his erection, her fingers brushing against him with every pull.
The release from the light confinement was a pleasure all its own, the scent of her perfume rising from the fabric as it came away. Finally, he was completely bare again, and she picked up the ring.
"This time, no buffer," she murmured. She stretched the cold silicone and snapped it into place directly against his skin. With a decisive click, she switched it on and pressed the button three times.
Full power.
The vibration was immediate, direct, and brutally intense. He cried out, his back arching off the bed as a tidal wave of pure sensation crashed over him. Before he could even begin to process it, Jane was moving. She hitched up the miniskirt, a flash of her incredible, rounded bum and the top of her thighs making him groan, and then she was on top of him, lowering herself with agonising slowness onto his buzzing, vibrating cock.
The moment she took him inside her, the world exploded into a riot of pure feeling.
He could feel every inch of her, hot and tight around him, as the powerful vibrations, now trapped between them, resonated deep within her body. Her head fell back, a sharp, guttural cry tearing from her throat, her carefully constructed composure shattering into a million pieces. She was instantly lost, her hips grinding down on him in a frantic, desperate rhythm, chasing her own pleasure with a single-minded intensity that was the most erotic thing he had ever witnessed.
She leant down, her hands finding his imprisoned wrists and she pinned them firmly to the pillow, further increasing his bondage.
He watched,as much as he could with her tits pressed against his face,utterly captivated, as her face became a mask of pure, unadulterated ecstasy, her lips parted, her eyes squeezed shut. He felt the tension in her body coiling tighter and tighter, her inner muscles clenching around him with an unbearable pressure. The sight of her, the severe officer, so completely undone by the pleasure he was a part of, was the final trigger.
Her orgasm hit her like a lightning strike, a full-body convulsion that sent a final, devastating wave of pleasure through him. He roared, his own release erupting in a powerful, desperate surge that felt like it was being torn from the very depths of his soul, a release he had been denied for what felt like an eternity.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was their ragged, gasping breaths and the soft, fading hum of the ring as its battery died. Jane collapsed onto his chest, her body slick with sweat.
She lay there for a minute, her breath slowly returning to normal. Then, she lifted her head, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across her lips. "Well, inmate," she whispered, her voice a husky purr against his ear. "Looks like you've been fully processed and released on good behaviour."
She slid off his body and moved with surprising swiftness. First, she went to his feet, deftly untying the ropes from his ankles,then removed his cock ring.
The freedom to move his legs was glorious. Then she moved to his head and, with a soft click, unlocked the cuffs from the bed rail. The relief in his arms and shoulders was immense.
But before he could even sit up, she grabbed his wrists, pulling them together over his stomach, and snapped the cold steel back into place in front of him.
"However,you're on limited release, prisoner," she said, her voice laced with sleepy satisfaction as she adjusted her skirt. "That means you're still under my supervision."
He didn't care. With his hands now free to move, he reached up, his cuffed hands cupping the back of her head, and pulled her down for a kiss. It was deep and desperate, a kiss that tasted of sweat, victory, and utter adoration. He broke it just enough to look into her eyes, hazy with her own pleasure.
"I'd love to get arrested more often, Officer Jane," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
She smirked, her eyes glittering as she slipped back into character. "Don't worry, Stirling," she said, her voice a low, professional purr. "The reoffending rate for perpetrators like you is extremely high. I anticipate we'll be processing you again very soon.Now get your arse out of here and make me a vanilla latte, and maybe I'll consider removing the bracelets, sonny!"
She smiled as his bare arse bobbed out of the door.
Suddenly, a thought hit her and her hand went instinctively to her breasts, and she froze.
" Oh fuck, where's the handcuff key? "
The first can be found here :
Jane & Matt : The Court of Jane. F/M - Stories of Tie Up Games https://share.google/V2j8satCUUnXM9n5v
The dull ache in Matt’s shoulders was the first thing to register, followed by the cold, unyielding bite of steel around his wrists. He was seated on one of their hard-backed dining chairs in the middle of the living room, his hands cuffed securely behind him. All he wore was a pair of soft grey joggers, leaving his torso bare. The late afternoon sun slanted through the bay window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air and highlighting the utter absurdity of his situation.
The click-clack of heels on the hardwood floor of the hallway announced her arrival. It was a sharp, authoritative sound that made the muscles in his back tense. He twisted his neck as she entered the room, and his breath caught in his throat, a jolt of pure,
unadulterated lust hitting him squarely in the chest.
Jane didn't just walk; she patrolled. She was every bit the fantasy cop from a late-night movie, and the sight of her sent a wave of heat crashing through him. The ridiculously short black mini skirt hugged her hips, and the sheer black tights traced every delectable curve of her calves and thighs, disappearing into the shadows beneath the hem. A tight black vest top, zipped halfway, stretched across her chest, promising more than it showed and showcasing the swell of her breasts. Perched atop her head at a jaunty, intimidating angle was a black-and-white police cap, its silver badge glinting in the sun. She looked magnificent, powerful, and so incredibly sexy it made his mouth go dry.
She circled him slowly, tapping a long, black plastic ruler against her thigh. "Matthew Allen Sterling," she said, her voice a low, clipped monotone. "You're in a whole heap of trouble, son."
Matt smirked, a spark of defiance in his eyes even as the heat pooled in his groin. "I don't know what you're talking about, Officer. I'm an innocent man."
"That's what they all say," she scoffed, stopping directly in front of him. "But the evidence is overwhelming. The Dishwasher Crimes Unit has been building a case. We've got you dead to rights on multiple violations of the Domestic Appliance Accord of 2023."
He met her gaze defiantly.
"The.... the what? You've got nothing," he blustered, trying to hide a smile. "It's all circumstantial. I was framed."
"Framed?" she repeated, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "By who? The rogue Tupperware syndicate? Let's review the charges, shall we? Exhibit A: Improper utensil stacking. You created a 'cuddling' formation with no fewer than six teaspoons."
"A desperate attempt to conserve space! A civic-minded act!" he protested.
"Silence!" she barked, tapping the ruler against his knee. "Exhibit B: Placing a cheese-encrusted lasagna dish on the top rack. The top rack, Sterling! Are you an animal?"
"That dish had a right to see the world from a different perspective!"
"And the final, most damning piece of evidence," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Exhibit C: Failure to pre-rinse a bowl containing solidified Weetabix. Forensics came back this morning. The structural integrity of that oat-based cement you created was strong enough to build a load-bearing wall. It took a chisel and a harsh word to remove it. You can't talk your way out of this one."
He lifted his chin. "You'll get nothing from me, copper. I'm not confessing."
Jane stared at him for a long, silent moment, her entire demeanour shifting from interrogator to something colder, more procedural.
"Alright, Sterling. Have it your way. Interview suspended. We're transferring you to a holding cell pending a more… persuasive line of questioning."
She unlocked the cuffs from the back of the chair then swiftly applied them back to his wrists and, grabbing his bicep, hauled him to his feet. She marched him into their bedroom, the 'holding cell' looking suspiciously soft and inviting. "On the bed. On your back," she commanded, pushing him down firmly.
He lay back, the cool cotton of the duvet a stark contrast to the nervous heat building inside him. "Roll to a side." she ordered.
Jane unlocked the cuffs from behind his back only to immediately pull his arms straight up above his head. With two decisive clicks, she snapped the steel bracelets shut again, this time securing his wrists together around the heavy top rail of their wooden headboard. He was pinned, his arms stretched above him, his chest and stomach exposed.
"Right," she said,as she dropped the cuff key inbetween her cleavage, her voice all business.
"We're going to need these for evidence." Before he could protest, she hooked her fingers into the waistband of his joggers and yanked them down his legs and off completely. "They'll need to be checked for forensic traces. Possible splash-back DNA from the dishwasher handle."
Completely naked and exposed, he felt a hot blush creep up his neck. His erection strained upwards, a blatant, shameless salute to her authority. Jane produced a length of black rope and, with practiced efficiency, tied his ankles together before securing them to the bottom rail of the bed.
She stood back, surveying her work. "Enjoy your incarceration, Stirling."
With that, she turned and left, the click of the door latch echoing in the sudden silence.
Closing the bedroom door behind her, Jane let out a slow, satisfied breath. The severe mask of the interrogator slipped away, replaced by a wide, genuine grin. A thrill of absolute control hummed through her. It may only be a game, but seeing Matt stretched out like that, so defiant in his words but so utterly surrendered in his body, was the most potent aphrodisiac she could imagine.Roleplay or not, he was, once again, absolutely helpless and totaly at her mercy.
The game was going perfectly. She walked into the kitchen, the ridiculous police cap still perched on her head, and filled the kettle. The sheer domesticity of the act—making a cup of tea while her husband was cuffed to their bed awaiting further questioning—sent a fresh wave of delighted amusement through her. This was what made it all so perfect. She was both the terrifying officer of the law and the woman who knew he preferred Earl Grey. She let the teabag steep, savoring the quiet moment, deliberately drawing out the suspense for both of them.
Fifteen minutes later, she re-entered the bedroom, mug in hand, the very picture of calm authority. Her persona had shifted to that of a friendly detective.
"Alright, Sterling.I'm here to help make things easier for you,so let's talk," she said, her voice smooth. She sat on the edge of the bed, and Matt’s eyes were drawn to the way the short skirt rode up her thighs, the sheer black fabric a tantalizing veil over her perfect skin. "Look, we know you did it. Just admit you have a fundamental misunderstanding of appliance-based hygiene and we can get you some help."
As she spoke, her free hand began to trace idle patterns across his chest. Every light touch was a spark against the fuse of his desire. "This can all go very easy for you, Matt." Her fingers drifted lower, dancing over his stomach before finding a ticklish spot on his ribs. He yelped and arched against the restraints, a strangled laugh erupting from his chest as a fresh wave of heat washed through him.
"Or," she continued, her voice a friendly purr while her fingers continued their torment, "it can be... hard."
Gasping for breath, he managed, "Wait! Stop! Don't I... don't I get my rights read to me?"
Jane paused and took a thoughtful sip of tea. "You're right. Procedural error. Ahem. Matthew Allen Sterling, you have the right to remain silent, but I'll probably just tickle you until you don't. You have the right to an attorney, but he's currently sleeping on the sofa and sheds hair everywhere, so he's not much help.You have the right to stop the interview at any time and walk out of the door, but... " she gestured towards the handcuffs and shrugged." Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?"
Before he could answer, a frantic scratching came from the door, followed by a loud, plaintive "Meeeow!"
Jane sighed theatrically. "Hold that thought. The star witness requires a debriefing." She left the room, and Matt heard her murmur, "Honestly, Detective Mumbles, your timing is impeccable." Jane let the cat out into the garden, refilled his water bowl, and took a moment to look at her reflection in the hall mirror. The woman staring back was a ridiculous, wonderful contradiction. She adjusted the police cap, a predatory glint returning to her eyes. The 'good cop' routine had run its course. It was time to escalate.
When she returned, the mood had shattered. Her police cap was pulled low over her eyes, and in her hand, she once again held the plastic ruler. She was the bad cop.
"Alright, funny man. Playtime is over." She smacked the ruler hard into her free palm. The sharp SMACK made him jump. "I'm going to ask you one more time. The Weetabix. Talk."
He stared up at her and remained stubbornly silent.
The ruler came down with a sharp, stinging CRACK against the top of his right thigh. He gasped, his body jerking against the restraints as a fiery line of heat bloomed on his skin.
"Agh!! No comment! "
CRACK!
This time on his other thigh. He let out a choked groan. A rapid, punishing staccato followed against his thighs. Each sting seemed to bypass pain and travel directly to his groin, making his erection throb with a mixture of agony and ecstasy, until the overwhelming sensations finally broke him.
"Okay! Okay! I did it!" he yelled, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "I confess! The Weetabix, the spoons, the lasagna dish! It was all me! I'm guilty!"
The ruler paused mid-air. "Well well well, a full confession," she murmured, her voice losing its hard edge. She lowered the ruler and delivered one final, sharp SMACK to the side of his arse.
"For wasting police time."
She placed the ruler on the nightstand. "The physical persuasion portion of this interview is now concluded. We now move on to the evidence processing phase."
Holding his gaze, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her sheer black tights. With an agonizing slowness, she peeled them down, the whisper of nylon a symphony to his ears. The sight of her pale, perfect skin being revealed inch by inch was almost too much to bear. She kicked them free and moved up the bed with a predatory grace.
Then, with a slow, deliberate motion that made his breath catch, she straddled his head, her thighs bracketing his face, her body completely blocking his view of the room. He was trapped, his hands still cuffed uselessly above him. His world narrowed to the soft curve of her belly, the swell of her hips, and the dark, musky scent of her arousal.
"The scene is clear for forensic analysis," she commanded, her voice a low vibration that travelled straight through him. "Get to work."
He obeyed, his world narrowing to this single, all-consuming task. Her taste was intoxicating, a reward that completely eclipsed the lingering sting on his skin. This was the true sentence. Jane’s body began to move, her hips rocking in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Her breathing grew ragged, her commands becoming shorter, sharper, punctuated by gasps.
"That's it... process the evidence... good boy..."
Her head rocked back, face pointing at the ceiling but eyes scrunched closed.
She reached down with her left hand and grabbed a handful of his hair, roughly pulling his head further towards her sex, his kicking becoming more frantic.
Matt's fists were now gripping the bed rail he was cuffed to,his knuckles turning white.
"Fuck.... Oh God, just..... Yes!"
With a choked cry that was half command and half surrender, her body convulsed, thighs clamping his head tightly. Her climax washed over her in a powerful, shuddering wave.
Slowly, she relaxed, breathing heavily. She slid off him, landing gracefully on her feet beside the bed. She looked down at his face, slick with her juices, her eyes hazy with pleasure but with the glint of authority already returning.
He was aching, desperate, and still painfully hard. "Officer," he panted, straining against the steel. "What about my rights? Don't I... don't I get a release?"
Jane looked down at him, her expression utterly impassive. "That privilege is not extended to inmates at this facility, Sterling. Consider it suspended, pending review by the parole board."
She gave his throbbing erection a clinical, dismissive glance. "Any unauthorized discharge of evidence will be considered a violation of prison protocol and will result in further disciplinary action."
With a final, devastatingly sexy smirk, she turned and walked out of the room. "Enjoy your incarceration."
The click of the door latch echoed in the sudden silence, leaving him bound, aching, denied, and utterly, completely hers.
The lingering tremors of her orgasm faded slowly, leaving behind a deep, humming satisfaction and a crystalline clarity of thought. Jane closed the bedroom door with a soft click, leaning against it for a moment, a victorious smile playing on her lips. The game was far from over. In fact, the most delicious part was just beginning.
An orgasm for him would be an ending, a full stop. She wasn't interested in endings. She was interested in the story, in the long, drawn-out tension of the second act. Keeping him like this—bound, aching, and desperate—was the entire point. It was a delicate art, pushing him right to the very edge of his control and holding him there for hours, watching the battle between his frustration and his arousal play out across his face. It was in that simmering, suspended state that he was most beautifully, completely hers.
She walked into the living room, the police cap still perched jauntily on her head, and began tidying up the evidence of their earlier interrogation: her teacup went into the dishwasher (correctly loaded, of course), and the ruler was wiped clean and placed back in the desk drawer. Mundane tasks felt thrillingly subversive while her husband was naked and cuffed in the next room. It was this bizarre, perfect duality she loved most.
Now, what next? The parole hearing she’d mentioned was a perfect narrative hook. It required a board, of course. A jury of his peers was out of the question; he had no peers in this. It had to be a panel of unimpeachable character and stern judgment. Her eyes landed on Mr. Mumbles, who was currently batting at a dust bunny under the sofa.
"Detective Mumbles, you're promoted to the parole board," she murmured. He'd be the stoic, silent type. She'd also need Barnaby, the threadbare teddy bear from her childhood who sat on the armchair. He had seen everything and had the cold, unforgiving button eyes to prove it. He could be the chairman.
The hearing would be formal. He would have to plead his case for release from his current state of… tumescence. He’d have to show remorse for his dishwasher crimes. He would have to make promises of future good behaviour. And the board, of course, would find his plea lacking. They would confer, and they would ultimately deny his parole, sentencing him to several more hours of supervised incarceration. The thought sent another delicious shiver of power through her. Yes, that was the plan. Or she could just choose to end his torment and fuck him so hard he'd have trouble remembering his own name.
Decisions, decisions...
She glanced at Mr. Mumbles, now brushing himself up against her bare legs.
"Let the prisoner stew a bit longer, shall we?"
Back in the bedroom slash holding cell, Matt lay utterly still, listening to the sounds of Jane moving through the house. The clink of a cup, the soft thud of a drawer closing. Each normal, everyday noise was a form of exquisite torture, a reminder that while her world continued, his was paused, locked in this state of heightened, agonizing anticipation.
His body was a warzone of conflicting sensations. The lingering sting on his thighs was a dull, warm throb, a physical memory of her punishment. The cold steel of the cuffs was an unyielding anchor, chaining him to his helplessness. And between them, his erection was a defiant, aching monument to her absolute power over him. The frustration was immense, a physical pressure building in his chest and groin, a desperate need for a release she had explicitly forbidden.
But beneath the frustration, woven through it so tightly they were inseparable, was a profound and exhilarating arousal. This was the core of their games. This was the magic. He loved this feeling of being completely out of his own control, of handing the reins of his body and his pleasure over to her. He didn't have to think, to decide, to perform. He only had to feel, to react, to obey.
And her outfits… God, her outfits.
They were the key that unlocked everything. The severe barrister's wig and lacy babydoll; the stern librarian glasses paired with a pencil skirt so tight it was a miracle she could walk; the imperious headmistress in tweed and stockings. Each costume was a signal, a transformation from Jane, his funny, loving wife, into the character she was playing, a woman with absolute authority. Today’s sexy-cop uniform was a masterpiece, a perfect blend of power and raw, undisguised fantasy that had him captivated from the moment she walked in.
He thought back to their other games. There was the time she'd played a merciless art critic, critiquing his "technique" in household chores and assigning "corrective physical therapy." Or the sci-fi captain, sentencing him to the "recalibration chamber" for insubordination, using her Love Honey purple Jessica Rabbit vibrator as an "alien probe" that had left him buzzing for hours. Each scenario was more creative than the last, a testament to the brilliant, kinky mind of the woman he’d married.
He knew this was her favourite part: the long, slow burn. The denial was as much a part of the game as the punishment or the eventual reward. He had no idea what she was planning next, what absurd, wonderful scenario she was constructing in the other room. He only knew that when she returned, she would have a new role to play, and he would be her willing, frustrated, and desperately eager audience of one. The waiting was hell. And he wouldn't have it any other way.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Jane's tea was a pleasant, grounding ritual, but the real sustenance was the anticipation thrumming through her veins. She placed the empty mug in the sink and adjusted her police cap in the reflection of the microwave door. The 'bad cop' had served her purpose: a confession was secured. Now, it was time for the next phase, the one that required a subtler, more insidious form of control. It was time to play the system.
She pushed the bedroom door open and walked in with a newfound air of bureaucratic efficiency. Matt’s eyes snapped to her immediately, wide and wary. His body was a testament to her work—the faint red marks on his skin, the rigid tension in his muscles, and the defiant, painfully hard erection that told her everything she needed to know. He was a tightly coiled spring, and she was about to enjoy winding it even tighter.
She walked to the side of the bed, her hips swaying with a slow, deliberate motion she knew he couldn't ignore. She watched his eyes track her every move, taking in the long, elegant lines of her bare legs, the way the tiny skirt struggled to maintain its modesty. She looked down at him, her expression a careful blend of sympathy and official duty.
"Okay, Sterling," she began, her voice low and confidential. "I've been speaking with the DA. Off the record."
She let that hang in the air as she leaned over him, giving him a perfect view down the front of her tightly zipped vest. Her hand drifted down, coming to rest with feigned casualness on his upper thigh, her fingers just brushing against the base of his cock. He flinched, a full-body tremor, and his breath hitched as his erection gave a distinct, telling throb.
"Look, your case isn't good," she continued, her thumb beginning to trace a slow, lazy circle on his skin. "The evidence is overwhelming. But you confessed. That counts for something. It shows a willingness to cooperate."
Her fingers closed around him, a gentle but firm grip. His entire body went rigid, his back arching slightly against the bed. He was so hot, so hard, a perfect conduit for the electricity she was feeding him.
"Here's the deal I can offer," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as she began to stroke him, slowly, deliberately. Each long, smooth slide of her hand was a universe of sensation. "You're scheduled for a parole hearing. It's a tough board. Chairman Barnaby is an old-school traditionalist, and Justice Mumbles… well, he's inscrutable. But if you show the board the proper remorse, if you are respectful and compliant, I can put in a good word. I can suggest a path to rehabilitation."
Her pace quickened slightly, her movements becoming slick with the evidence of his arousal. His hips began to move instinctively, a desperate, silent plea to meet her touch. He was losing himself in the rhythm, the pure, mindless pleasure of her hand.
"Jane..." he gasped. "Please..."
"It's 'Officer'," she corrected softly, her thumb pressing down on the sensitive tip, making him groan. "And I'm trying to help you, Sterling. But you have to work with me. You have to show me you can follow instructions. That you can control yourself."
She pushed him higher, faster, feeling the tension in his body build to an almost unbearable peak. His thighs strained against the ropes, his stomach muscles were corded steel, and his breathing was a series of short, frantic pants. He was right there, on the precipice, the point of no return.
And then, she stopped.
Her hand simply ceased moving, resting lightly on top of him. The sudden absence of motion was a physical shock, more jarring than any blow. The pleasure vanished, replaced by a white-hot, agonizing frustration.
She leaned down, a glint in her eye. "You have to show the board you can be trusted."
He lay still, willing his cock and balls to just push itself over the cliff edge he was so close to tipping over, his body screaming with a phantom pleasure that had been ripped away. It was torture. It was heaven. It was the most intensely frustrating and electrifying feeling he had ever known.
The lack of physical stimulation from Jane's hand stopped him cruelly short of cumming.
His mind was a chaotic storm of need, every nerve ending still singing from her touch, every muscle clenched in a silent, desperate protest.
This was Jane at her most brilliant, her most cruel, her most perfect. It wasn't just about tying him up; it was about this: the psychological warfare, the absolute mastery of his body's responses. She had played him like an instrument, bringing him to a fever pitch only to cut the strings, leaving the note hanging, unresolved, in the air.
Instead of leaving, she stood up, bent down and picked up the sheer black tights she had discarded earlier. He was given a perfect, breathtaking view of her backside, the tight curve of her bum straining against the ridiculously short skirt, a sight so potent it made his cock throb anew with a sharp, painful ache. He held his breath as she straightened up and returned to the bed. With a slow, deliberate movement, she gently draped the worn nylon over his aching erection.
The sensation was electric. The material was impossibly light, almost weightless, yet it felt like a brand. It was silky smooth, still holding the warmth of her body and the faint, intoxicating scent of her perfume. The delicate fabric clung to him, a ghostly second skin that both concealed and accentuated, a constant, teasing caress against his hyper-sensitive skin.
Before he could fully process the new layer of torment, she leaned down and kissed him. The view was overwhelming as she came closer—the intoxicating swell of her breasts above the vest's zipper, the severe line of the police cap, the predatory look in her eyes. It wasn’t a peck, but a deep, dominant kiss that stole his breath and claimed his mouth, a kiss that tasted of tea and victory. As her tongue explored his, her fingers found him again, this time through the silky barrier of the tights. She cupped his balls and tickled them lightly, the nylon sliding against his skin with her movements. The combination was overwhelming: the crushing frustration in his groin, the slick heat of the fabric, the dizzying pleasure of her mouth, and the wicked, playful torment of her fingers.
She broke the kiss, leaving him breathless and dazed.
"I have to attend to some urgent police business," she said, her voice miraculously all professional again. "There's an ongoing surveillance operation monitoring a potential bread-based hostile entity in the toaster. Plus, I need to file a full report on the status of the laundry hamper – it's reaching critical capacity."
She gave him one last, devastatingly smug look. "The parole board will convene in one hour. I suggest you prepare your testimony. They'll be looking for a convincing performance."
She turned and left, the click of the door latch sealing him in with the lingering taste of her kiss, the ghost of her touch, and the silky, scented reminder of her authority draped over his aching cock. The waiting was hell. And he wouldn't have it any other way.
The "important police business" Jane had to attend to was, in fact, toast. Two perfectly golden-brown slices had just popped from the toaster, and the rich, comforting smell filled the kitchen. She reached for the butter dish on the counter, her mind still buzzing with the thrill of her victory over Matt, only to find it empty save for a few pathetic, unspreadable crumb encrusted blobs.
"For God's sake," she muttered to the empty room. A domestic crisis in the middle of a high-stakes interrogation. She needed butter. The good, salted kind from the little farm shop across the road. The thought of delaying the game was irritating, but the thought of dry toast was a crime against breakfast.
A slow, wicked grin spread across her face as an idea began to form, a perfect fusion of domestic necessity and disciplinary innovation. He was a flight risk, after all. A known perpetrator of appliance-based felonies. He couldn't be left unsupervised without the proper precautions.
She strode back to the bedroom, her heels clicking with renewed purpose. Matt looked up, his eyes a mixture of hope and dread.
"Change of plans, Sterling," she announced, her voice crisp and official. "I've been called away on an urgent, off-site situation. A high-priority asset needs to be secured. I should be back in about twenty minutes."
His eyes widened in panic as he realised she was serious. "Twenty minutes? Jane, you can't just—"
She ignored him completely. Instead, her gaze dropped to his groin, and the wicked idea solidified into a concrete plan. "Protocol dictates that a prisoner of your risk level cannot be left unattended without a tracking device," she stated, her voice deadpan. She moved to the bedside table and opened the top drawer, retrieving a small, black silicone ring with a silver nub on top. His vibrating cock ring.
Matt's eyes widened in horrified understanding. "Jane... no... Officer, please, don't leave me with that on, not in my state!"
"Silence from the prisoner," she said coolly, holding up the device as if it were a standard-issue piece of police equipment. She then picked up the discarded tights current draped over his penis and balls.
"First, we have to secure the asset."
With a firm, surprisingly gentle touch, she took hold of his erection. He gasped as she carefully, methodically, threaded him into the open leg of the tights, encasing him completely in the sheer nylon tube. The sensation was maddening—confining, silky, and amplifying his every throb. Once he was fully sheathed, she stretched the vibrating ring and snapped it into place at his base, on top of the nylon.
"Standard-issue electronic monitoring tag," she explained, her face a mask of professional seriousness. "It monitors the prisoner's vitals." She flicked the switch.
The effect was instantaneous and brutal. A deep, relentless hum started up, sending powerful vibrations not directly onto his skin, but through the silky, confining barrier of the tights. It wasn't a sharp pleasure designed to bring him to a quick end; it was a broad, buzzing, inescapable wave of stimulation that promised to keep him perpetually on the very brink of orgasm. He bucked against the ropes, a strangled groan tearing from his throat.
"No, please... turn it off!" he begged, his voice strained.
She turned to the wardrobe, completely deaf to his pleas. She unzipped the miniskirt and let it fall to the floor, revealing she was completely bare underneath. The sight of her, the severe vest top and police cap contrasting with the raw, unexpected nakedness of her lower body, was a gut punch of pure lust that left him breathless.
She went to her drawer and pulled out a pair of full back, dark crimson lace knickers. With a slow, deliberate movement that was pure performance, she stepped into them, shimmying the delicate fabric up over her incredible, rounded bum and settling them on her hips.
Then, she pulled on a pair of form-fitting jeans. They were old and soft, faded in all the right places, and they hugged her every curve like a second skin. The snug denim accentuated the swell of her bum and the gentle curve of her hips, transforming her from a fantasy cop into the impossibly sexy girl next door.
"Have to go plain-clothed for this operation," she said, buttoning the jeans with a decisive snap. "Need to blend in with the civilian population."
She walked back to the bed and leaned over him, her face inches from his. "Now, you listen to me, Sterling," she whispered, her voice dangerously low. "This tag monitors for any... unauthorised discharges. If it registers a full confession before I get back, the parole board won't just deny your release. They'll double your sentence. And the enhanced interrogation will resume with equipment that makes that little ruler look like a child's toy. Do you understand me?"
He could only nod, his body trembling with the effort of resisting the relentless vibrations.
She gave him one last look, a devastatingly smug smile playing on her lips. "Be a good boy. I'll be back soon."
The front door clicked shut, and he was left alone. Alone with the deep, maddening hum vibrating through his core, the scent of her perfume rising from the nylon prison encasing his cock, and the terrifying, thrilling challenge of holding himself together until his beautiful, cruel, perfect wife got back from buying butter.
He was a prisoner in his own body, trapped by steel and rope, and now, by this maddening electronic tormentor. The vibrations weren't sharp or direct enough to offer the clean, simple promise of an orgasm; they were a broad, buzzing, inescapable wave of stimulation that saturated every nerve ending.The position of the ring meant it wasn't anywhere near the head of his cock, which would probably be enough to make him cum.
He was a surfer perpetually balanced on the crest of a wave that refused to break, a tightrope walker frozen mid-step over a canyon of release. His orgasm was right there, a shimmering mirage just inches away, yet a thousand miles out of reach.
His body was a traitor. Every throb of the vibrating ring was met with a desperate, involuntary clench of his muscles. His hips strained against the ropes binding his ankles, a futile attempt to grind against something, anything, to push himself over the edge. But there was nothing. Only the slick, confining nylon and the endless, maddening buzz. The frustration was a physical thing, a burning ache that started in his balls and spread through his entire body, coiling in his stomach like a hot snake.
He tested his bonds again, a desperate, primal need to do something. He pulled his hands, but the steel cuffs didn't give a millimetre, their cold bite a stark reminder of his helplessness. The chain rattled softly against the wooden headboard, a pathetic sound in the quiet room. He strained against the ropes on his ankles. They were perfect. Taut, expertly tied, with no slack to exploit. Of course they were. Jane was nothing if not thorough.
Suddenly, a new sound cut through the haze, sharp and intrusive.
The minutes ticked agonisingly by. How long had it been now?
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK.
A heavy, official-sounding rap on the front door. A bolt of pure, ice-cold panic shot through him, instantly overriding the arousal. Who was that? It wasn't Jane; she had a key. The sheer, naked vulnerability of his position crashed down on him. He was cuffed. Naked. With a vibrating cock ring buzzing away under a pair of his wife's tights.
The knocking came again, louder this time. He held his breath, praying they would go away. He heard the rumble of a van engine idling. A delivery. Oh, God. A delivery driver at the door while he was trussed up like this. The thought was mortifying. He heard footsteps on the gravel path, walking away, and allowed himself a brief, shaky sigh of relief.
Jane walked up the path, brownie in one hand, butter and milk in the other, a smug smile of satisfaction on her face. She saw the delivery van parked at the curb and a young, flustered-looking driver with a large cardboard box halfway back to his vehicle.
"Oh, sorry!" he called out, turning around. "No one answered."
"No problem, you've caught me just in time," Jane said, her voice warm and easy. She shifted her shopping to one arm, and the movement pulled the tight vest taut across her chest. The driver's eyes flickered down for a fraction of a second before snapping back to her face, a faint blush creeping up his neck.
"Big package," he said, handing it over. It was heavier than it looked.
Jane took it with a grin, her eyes glittering with private amusement. "Oh, I always know how to handle a package! " she purred, followed by a Barbra Windsor style cheeky laugh.
The double meaning hung in the air, and the driver’s blush deepened,even though he was far too young to have even heard of any Carry On films.
He fumbled with his electronic scanner. "Right. Well. Have a... have a good one."
"You too," Jane said, giving him a slow, deliberate smile that she knew was doing absolutely nothing to cool him down. She watched him practically flee back to his van before turning and letting herself into the house.
She walked with an exaggerated sway of her buttocks, knowing there was a fairly high chance Mr Amazon was oggling her. The contrast between that fleeting, flirty power and the absolute power she wielded in the bedroom was utterly delicious.
Back in the kitchen, she saw the two slices of toast she’d made earlier, now cold and sad on the counter. Collateral damage. She tossed them in the bin and put two fresh slices in, humming to herself. When they popped, she buttered them liberally and ate them standing at the counter, savoring every bite. The game could wait for toast.
Finally, her errand and snack complete, she strode back to the bedroom. Matt was a wreck, his body trembling, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. The sight filled her with a profound sense of accomplishment.
"Good news, Sterling," she announced, her voice brisk and official again. "The board has agreed to move up your parole hearing. It will commence in five minutes."
She leaned over him, and with a decisive click, switched off the vibrating ring.
Matt gasped, his body going limp with a relief so profound it was almost painful. The sudden, absolute silence was a shock after the relentless buzzing. But the relief was fleeting. As the ghost of the vibration faded, it was replaced by a new, even worse form of torment: a hollow, desperate ache. The over-stimulation had been maddening, but this—this complete absence of sensation when his body was screaming for it—was a deeper, more profound kind of hell.
She bent and examined his nylon clad cock,running a finger nail from the base to the head of his penis.
Jane watched the wave of fresh despair wash over his face. "Let the record show the electronic monitoring tag has been deactivated,and the detained has shown no signs of discharge. " she stated coolly. "The prisoner is prepped for his hearing. You will address the board with respect. You will answer their questions truthfully. Any insolence will be noted and will have... severe repercussions on your final sentencing."
She straightened up, the perfect picture of an officer of the court. "Prepare yourself, prisoner. The board is on its way."
With a dramatic about turn, she purposely strode out of the room,picking up her skirt on the way out.
He heard her enter the spare bedroom, the soft rustle of clothes signalling another transformation. When she stepped back into the bedroom, the casual, jean-clad woman who had left for butter was gone. In her place, once again, was the impossibly sexy police officer. She had changed back into the ridiculously short mini skirt and tight black vest, a clear signal that her off-duty time was over. On her nose, however, she had added a pair of stern, black-rimmed glasses, a small change that shifted her entire persona from a flirty street cop to a terrifyingly beautiful official of the Court.Her cap was gone and her long, dark hair was pilled up into a stylish, dramatic bun. The power shift was so potent it made his cock give a hard, painful throb beneath its silky prison.
With great ceremony, she walked to the armchair, picked up Barnaby the teddy bear, and placed him on the dressing table chair, facing the bed. "Chairman Barnaby," she announced to the empty room. She then scooped up a purring Mr. Mumbles, who had followed her in, and deposited him on the foot of the bed. "And Justice Mumbles."
She turned to Matt, her face an unreadable mask of judicial seriousness. "The parole hearing of inmate Sterling is now in session," she declared, her voice crisp and clear. "You will plead your case for release from your current state of… incarceration. Let me be clear. If you satisfactorily meet the board's requirements for remorse and rehabilitation, you can expect... relief." She let the word hang in the air, a shimmering promise. "However, if you fail, you're looking at a very long stretch indeed." She paused, her eyes trailing from his cuffed wrists to his bound ankles. "Though, from my perspective, you're already quite... stretched."
After a series of gruelling questions about the specific nature of his crimes against crockery and his plans for a future of considerate rinsing she stood, and after a dramatic pause announced " That concludes your hearing. The board will now adjourn to consider its verdict." She ceremoniously picked up the cat and the bear and left the room.
The minutes she was gone felt like an eternity. When she returned, her face was impassive. She walked slowly to the side of the bed, the mini skirt forcing a hypnotic rhythm into her stride. She looked down at him, her glasses perched on the end of her nose.
"The board has deliberated," she said, her voice a low murmur. "In light of your testimony, your apparent remorse, and your… compelling physical arguments… they have decided to grant your parole."
"Oh! Thank fu...."
"DO NOT MAKE ME PUNISH YOU FURTHER FOR CONTEMPT OF COURT, MR STERLING!", Jane bellowed, startling Mr Mumbles who darted out of the door.
"Sorry, Ma'am, please accept my apologies." Matt was actually quite sincere in his remorse, the last thing he wanted was to be left tied to the bed for another couple of hours whilst Jane retreated to watch The Celebrity Traitors or something.
Jane leaned down, a wicked glint in her eyes. "The court requires absolute obidience, Mr Stirling. However, your apology is accepted. Now. Parole, inmate, doesn't mean freedom," she whispered, her voice a silken threat. "It means supervised release."
Her fingers went to his groin. First, she carefully removed the now-deactivated vibrating ring, setting it aside for a moment. Then, with an agonizing slowness, she began to peel the silky tights from his erection, her fingers brushing against him with every pull.
The release from the light confinement was a pleasure all its own, the scent of her perfume rising from the fabric as it came away. Finally, he was completely bare again, and she picked up the ring.
"This time, no buffer," she murmured. She stretched the cold silicone and snapped it into place directly against his skin. With a decisive click, she switched it on and pressed the button three times.
Full power.
The vibration was immediate, direct, and brutally intense. He cried out, his back arching off the bed as a tidal wave of pure sensation crashed over him. Before he could even begin to process it, Jane was moving. She hitched up the miniskirt, a flash of her incredible, rounded bum and the top of her thighs making him groan, and then she was on top of him, lowering herself with agonising slowness onto his buzzing, vibrating cock.
The moment she took him inside her, the world exploded into a riot of pure feeling.
He could feel every inch of her, hot and tight around him, as the powerful vibrations, now trapped between them, resonated deep within her body. Her head fell back, a sharp, guttural cry tearing from her throat, her carefully constructed composure shattering into a million pieces. She was instantly lost, her hips grinding down on him in a frantic, desperate rhythm, chasing her own pleasure with a single-minded intensity that was the most erotic thing he had ever witnessed.
She leant down, her hands finding his imprisoned wrists and she pinned them firmly to the pillow, further increasing his bondage.
He watched,as much as he could with her tits pressed against his face,utterly captivated, as her face became a mask of pure, unadulterated ecstasy, her lips parted, her eyes squeezed shut. He felt the tension in her body coiling tighter and tighter, her inner muscles clenching around him with an unbearable pressure. The sight of her, the severe officer, so completely undone by the pleasure he was a part of, was the final trigger.
Her orgasm hit her like a lightning strike, a full-body convulsion that sent a final, devastating wave of pleasure through him. He roared, his own release erupting in a powerful, desperate surge that felt like it was being torn from the very depths of his soul, a release he had been denied for what felt like an eternity.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was their ragged, gasping breaths and the soft, fading hum of the ring as its battery died. Jane collapsed onto his chest, her body slick with sweat.
She lay there for a minute, her breath slowly returning to normal. Then, she lifted her head, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across her lips. "Well, inmate," she whispered, her voice a husky purr against his ear. "Looks like you've been fully processed and released on good behaviour."
She slid off his body and moved with surprising swiftness. First, she went to his feet, deftly untying the ropes from his ankles,then removed his cock ring.
The freedom to move his legs was glorious. Then she moved to his head and, with a soft click, unlocked the cuffs from the bed rail. The relief in his arms and shoulders was immense.
But before he could even sit up, she grabbed his wrists, pulling them together over his stomach, and snapped the cold steel back into place in front of him.
"However,you're on limited release, prisoner," she said, her voice laced with sleepy satisfaction as she adjusted her skirt. "That means you're still under my supervision."
He didn't care. With his hands now free to move, he reached up, his cuffed hands cupping the back of her head, and pulled her down for a kiss. It was deep and desperate, a kiss that tasted of sweat, victory, and utter adoration. He broke it just enough to look into her eyes, hazy with her own pleasure.
"I'd love to get arrested more often, Officer Jane," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
She smirked, her eyes glittering as she slipped back into character. "Don't worry, Stirling," she said, her voice a low, professional purr. "The reoffending rate for perpetrators like you is extremely high. I anticipate we'll be processing you again very soon.Now get your arse out of here and make me a vanilla latte, and maybe I'll consider removing the bracelets, sonny!"
She smiled as his bare arse bobbed out of the door.
Suddenly, a thought hit her and her hand went instinctively to her breasts, and she froze.
" Oh fuck, where's the handcuff key? "