Saturday, September 15, 2018

Snippet from 'Finally Kept', finishing the Edwin Long saga

From the finale 'Finally Kept'.

This ends the trilogy of the Edwin Long saga.

For those who have read 'Visits' and "Dates', this third and final segment is available at...

30,500 words, $6.55. 

On or about October 1st, I will post the trilogy on Lulu in a single package and suspend the sale of 'Visits' and 'Dates'.

My New Home

Leashed, naked and bound, Miss Rikka leads into the top floor penthouse apartment. It is huge. It is magnificently furnished. It has a breathtaking view of the city and beyond. And I am told it will be the last thing I see for quite some time.

“Ms. Hartley has a special place... for you to be kept.”

Heartened that the elevator ride was uneventful, no interloping tenants, there comes offsetting disappointment as I am led straight through the expansive livingroom, down a hall past several bedrooms and into a pitch black room of size. The walls are covered with curvy black foam like material. The ceiling is painted black. The carpeting is thick, also black. And if there were windows such have been covered with the same foam stuff. Centered is a bed... but really a wooden platform with a thin mattress. Around the perimeter are straps and cuffs, the restraints appearing to be quite convincingly severe.

“You will be kept here until you are broken, disavowed of any notion of having free will. Thereafter you will serve Miss Justine... in any manner demanded. Ms. Hartley wants her to be happy, liberated of all desire for male companionship and thus able to concentrate on her studies.”

As Miss Rikka speaks she leads me to a low stool. By now I know to step up. And sure enough the leash is replaced by a hook hanging from a cable emanating from the ceiling. To my right, almost unseen in the darkness, there is a low bench. I am mindful of that in the woman’s basement.

“You are obedient, Mr. Long,” noting the meekness by which I assist with her control. “But you’re still to be well restrained... while not being caned.”

My shibari rope configuration now secured to the hook and cable, a booted foot pushes away the stool and I once again hang. My feet are lifted and my ankle ropes are returned my wrists. I again helplessly dangle in a kneeling position.

“Just a few hours,” Miss Rikka moving to a wall to grasp a dark cloth hood. “And you’ll be comfortable. I’ve had too much training and too much experience with shibari for you to be bound otherwise.”

The hood slips over my head. Once again Miss Rikka playfully pushes at my buttocks, the sight of my vulnerable nakedness bringing a low chuckle. I swing about like a puppet.

“And I think you’ll enjoy as well,” a finger going to my engorging penis, gently rubbing the swelling flesh to assure that both she and I are aware of my arousal.

Wriggling about, trying to frottage more against the warm teasing single digit, I curse myself, my weeks of denial showing.

 “Such deviance, Mr. Long... such warped needs.”

It is true. I would so much like more... to have my penis stand for her. Alas it cannot.

I hear the froufrou of boots on the carpeting and a click. What little light glowing from under the hood disappears. The darkness is thorough. I am hanging in a defacto cave.       

So here I remain under the tutelage of this woman... evidently from Japan... and more than evidently one of misandry. Humiliated... concerned... frightened of the unknown... yet I marvel at the long term comfort. Moving, squirming about produces nothing... other than to ironically enhance the sense of being under complete control... a woman’s complete control.

For how long?


I’d like to think it is a daily routine, yet I have no way to confirm. Time is not measurable without the setting and rising sun.

I find I am either hanging in darkness, being caned to the point that my vocal cords feel about to erupt, or strapped supine to the platform bed. I learn that the straps and cuffs are German, professionally designed and fabricated for institutions such as mental hospitals, penitentiaries for the criminally insane and I suppose for the likes of determined women. Miss Rikka suggested that if I were able to so much as loosen myself... not so much escape... I would be the first.

A special head restraint assures complete immobility and I am to learn of its utility quickly. Any woman who chooses to squat above my hooded head... or sit for that matter... can with complete insouciance relieve herself. Failure to fully imbibe... and do so neatly... earns bastinado... the application of rattan to the soles of my feet. Agonizing.

So I soon learn I partake... and to do so with feigned eagerness.   

Whom is it offering her golden elixir? I know not, the deed coming in complete silence and while hooded. But judging from the taste and with my tongue and lips occasionally savoring moist flesh during clean up, the many offerings are from at least a trio of supervising women. I must guess that it is Miss Rikka, Ms. Hartley... and in hoping... also Miss Justine... the youthfully divine Miss Justine.

Released from the platform bed, Miss Rikka returns me to rope bondage. I learn the tie she uses is termed ‘hishi karada’, translated as ‘rope dress’. And am always amazed at how quickly I am placed in the web of rope, moved to the low stool and suspended for more hours of humiliation. 

As I swing about, I am fed. Directed to relieve myself into a basin. Forced to perform well supervised bowel movements while in full body suspension... with a suppository assuring timeliness... my waste oozing past the rope wedged in my gluteal cleft.

I am caned.... slowly... methodically... my screams absorbed by the foam walls and deep carpeting. Much later to be returned to the platform bed, more elixir comes. Then some sleep, though passing out from the stress may be the more apropos description.

Well into the ordeal there also come visits from a woman who occasionally talks to me... with a degree of kindness. I lie supine, restrained of course... always restrained... and she applies a laser... the process of removing hair from my entire body lengthy and meticulous.

Yes, she speaks, instructing and cautioning for obedience when a given limb must be temporarily freed of its straps and cuffs.

Expensive, apparently multiple applications required to assure the follicles are well decimated, she works away, apparently with Miss Rikka or some other stern woman observing. For any attempt for me to speak earns a brisk ‘tap’ to my foot.

I howl. And though the woman is not one of them, her light chuckle suggests there is amusement in finding that something so quick and simple can bring such excruciating pain and instant compliance. I learn not to speak.    

In finishing each session, I feel like I am sunburned, though the discomfort is tolerable compared to the canings. Until I am given a sponge bath. Skin raw, the chamois is soft yet agonizing.
Over time my hair grows. And on occasion my hood is removed for grooming, I suppose to test its lengthiness. These are relished moments, and despite the endless bondage and daily application of bamboo, I look into the almond eyes of my tormentress with more than more respect. There is adoration... for her resolve... for her knowledge... for her sternness... her harshness... for the ease she finds in doing all this to me.

She returns my look with a knowing grin... so much aware that deep within me there is the quirky joy. She knows this... so cognizant of my depravity. Otherwise there are no words exchanged. Nothing needs to be said.

I am kept.

Saturday, September 8, 2018

Snippet from 'Kept Naked, Made Eager to Please'

More can be found on this blog... the July 28 and August 3, 2010 postings.



Keep Naked, Made Eager to Please

Copyright 2010

By Chris Bellows

“You’re sick!”

“No, I am wealthy. That means the more apt term is that I am eccentric,” the calm voice tending to soothe.

The pithy response is accompanied by a smile and the fondling hand does not pause. The boy attains more inkling as to his circumstances, derogatory words not staying the woman from her unbounded inspection. The cradling of his testicles prompted the expletive, fingers nestling beneath, her thumb smoothing over the top of the scrotum to judge the firmness and general wholesomeness of the male reproductive organs.

“Very nice. A good set of balls,” she casually proclaims, “though they seem to affect diction... and manners.”

The hand moves to the penis and slowly draws the organ straight out. It is a brazen gesture, nothing more than a blatant maneuver to determine length. The smile broadens as the shaft twitches and the hand withdraws. The woman steps back. Her smile fails to diminish in gazing at the well tethered youthful male figure... save for wrist and ankle cuffs his complete nakedness seeming to radiate under the bright lights.

“The charge?”

“Drunk, disorderly, indecent exposure,” the nearby officer solemnly replies as if to a presiding judge.

“Excellent... exposure. Very telling. Well you can take this one off your docket. We’ll once again save the county the cost of trial and incarceration. Do give my regards to her honor.”

The woman hands over an envelope. The officer accepts, no semblance of masking the outright bribe.

“You’ll have him brought to me in the morning, as usual? I’ll leave some restraints and a hood.”

The officer nods. The woman turns to step away.

“What’s this all about, bitch?”

“Well, well, indecent exposure... and an indecent mouth. Do restrain him standing for the night. Tomorrow he’ll be more receptive to lessons of etiquette,” the intonation most ominous.

The officer smiles. The woman notes that despite the rambunctious words her acquisition quakes, her firm instructions finally engendering the gravity of his situation... his vulnerability. The indication of fear brings laughter... demonic laughter.

The boy outright shudders... as he should.


Born into a middle class but well educated family, Audrey Meredith Darrows lived many years a normal life... school... boys... athletics... college. She excelled. Competitive, she thrived in the classroom, tried every sport, shrank from no challenge... including medical school.

A high paid vocation as an accomplished surgeon, events... accomplishments... even the loftiest goals brought attainment... every objective achieved with success... except one.

At what seemed to be the pinnacle of her life, Dr. Audrey Meredith Darrows failed to marry.

A joint announcement issued by a seemingly prototypical couple, ended the planned betrothal... graciously... but unexplainedly.

Thereafter life changed for Dr. Audrey Meredith Darrows. For the better?

Months after the wedding cancellation, a wealthy relative died, a great aunt. Skipping over, ignoring other estranged relatives, word of Dr. Audrey Meredith Darrows’ enviable success in life engendering appeal, there was fostered the gravitational pull of success and money, bestowing a massive inheritance on Dr. Darrows.

What to do?

Love life shattered, a singular failure with cause left to speculation, attention to the rigors of precision surgery waned. Uninspired, curing the ills of the world no longer brought satisfaction.

Dressing one morning, Dr. Audrey Meredith Darrows looked in the mirror. Noted were youth remaining, athletic shapeliness yielding to neither time nor gravity, and a nearby cell phone. The latter empowered, used to cancel first the morning appointments... then the day’s appointments... then life’s appointments. She quit. Self emancipation ensued.

Yes, it dawned... wealthy... knowledgeable... alluring... yet jaded and unhappy. She changed her existence.

Dr. Audrey Meredith Darrows retired from the medical profession, her life to become transformed, more deeds inexplicable.


“What are you doing to me, you bitch!” the voice loud, aggressive, boisterous.

“Tsk, tsk, Gregory. You’ll wear out your vocal cords, and with little result. Being hooded, you did not notice where you’ve been taken. And that you’ll not fully ascertain until I... until you’re made ready.

“But you’re in my barn... on a very secluded farm. It’s more than a mile over the hill to the main road. In the other direction there is another mile or two of my land, then a forest preserve owned by the State of West Virginia, with even fewer people, thicker trees and less accessible terrain. So it is unlikely any one but us will hear you... hear your protestations. And I think you’ll soon learn such have little effect.”

As Dr. Darrows speaks, she prepares various implements on a steel tray.

“I need to lie down!” come more words too loud, the well secured figure standing bent at the waist.

“And you shall... when I decide. It’s a paradigm to which you will need to become accustomed. It is best for you. Here I govern.”

“What is this, a dungeon?” young Gregory rolling about his eyes, his neck and wrists encased in thick wooden planks, holding his head immobile.

“You’re held in one of many stalls in my barn, converted... less now a shelter for equine and bovine creatures than for other... beasts.”

A left hand, gloved in the latex of the surgeon she once was, reaches forth to locks of hair long askew, the fingers entwining.

“Do try not to move. Overall, this can offer little aggravation if you don’t resist.”

“What is it? What are you doing?”

“So loud...” comes an unresponsive reply as the right hand approaches.

Into the right nostril there is introduced a soft flexible rubber tube. Fingers dextrously push, within seconds meeting the resistance of the sinus cavity.


The utterance, more of shock and denial than protest, brings a smile. Neck and wrists firmly encased between two thick, smooth well worn planks, the reference to a dungeon is appropriate, the good doctor having acquired ancient yet effective stocks.

There comes the dawning of reality... Dr. Audrey Meredith Darrows can do whatever she pleases... and the deafening shouts will not deafen the deaf... the aloof... the callous.

Both Gregory and the doctor sense the slight pop as the right nostril yields and the tube enters the sinus cavity. It brings a grimace from the bound, and realization for Dr. Darrows.

“Now it is best to hold still. I can be quick and relatively painless for good boys.”

The left hand releases and quickly moves to the tray. Forceps, rubber coated, glistening with lubricant, such are introduced to the left nostril, bringing forth a nasal groan. But also a notable display of skill, as the prongs also enter the sinus cavity and quickly snare the end of the tube within.

“Arrrrghhhh,” comes the expected reaction as the forceps retreat, drawing the tube down the left nostril.

“You’re a good boy. And good boys get to lie down. Just as soon as the polymers and adhesive cure and dry,” the words cooed... a mother reassuring a distraught child.

As she speaks the hands and fingers rapidly work, snipping the tube to shorten and form an upside down ‘U’, the ends dangling at the lips. The point of a large syringe invaginates one end, the plunger pressed to introduce the aforementioned polymers into the tube. Smoothly, with a surgeon’s speed and precision, the tube fills, within seconds a small dollop of the substance exiting the opposing end.

The syringe returns to the tray and a small perfectly sized cylinder of solid rubber is inserted to connect the loose ends. Then the fingers work with a powerful dental adhesive to assure the ends of the tube bond to form an ellipse which penetrates the sinuses.

The doctor smiles, her professional look of complacency bringing curious calm as her fingers hold together the tube ends. The formulation of the polymers will somewhat harden the loop, and make it quite durable to stress... a very important attribute. She finds that Gregory’s naivety amuses, for he will soon learn of the gravity of his nasal modification. When cured and dried, he will find that the amazing compound, filling the otherwise smooth and soft tube, transforms it to the equivalent of a ring of hardened steel, its tensile strength noteworthy.

“Why are you doing this?” the voice now more beseeching than provocative.

“Because I can.”

The fingers continue to hold together the tube ends as a large woman of color momentarily steps within view.

“This one likes to expose himself, Vocinda. Strip him down, begin the depilation. If he’s good, lower the stocks and let him lie down for a while. I suspect he spent the night cuffed to the bars of his cell in a standing position,” amused in knowing that he was made to do so under her orders.

Compounds dried, the gloved left hand tousles the hair then the doctor steps out of sight. Gregory’s peripheral vision, the large planks impeding, limits his view of the woman accepting the instructions. But he does feel her hands and hears the tearing of clothing.

Well tethered wrists, ankles cuffed as well, will not inhibit the removal of his clothing... all his clothing. Every garment is ripped, shredded actually, the large woman seeming to handle boys with energetic glee.

Yes, once again he is stripped naked... to be exposed.

For what purpose?

Saturday, September 1, 2018

September Special... Pony play

Special for the month of September, 'Kept Naked, Made Eager to Please'

Regular price $6.99. September price $2.10.

Female Dominant, male submissive pony play, some 37,000 words. Strong stuff, as best as I can remember.


Snippet from 'Dates'

A snippet from the sequel to 'Visits'.

This will be the only posting.

The entire story is available at...

My Second Date

‘Have you healed?’

The missive could be interpreted as caring. But I know the woman either taunts or needs to arrange another date. Welted stripes deemed unsightly, the many marks of my caning must fade in order for me to be deemed ‘presentable for entertainment’.

‘Mostly Ma’am,’ I reply. ‘I can sit normally,’ clicking send.

‘I watched the video. You cane nicely, Mr. Long... such amusing struggles. Such futility. You’re not the first subordinate male who thinks that brawn can overcome well designed bindings.’

‘It cannot be helped. The pain is excruciating,’ such a silly reply, I think moments after clicking send.

‘Yes, and you did not vomit as do most. She’s good, my client. Extreme pain, no broken skin. Hard to believe she’s the devoted mother of three. Every woman needs to vent frustrations, Mr. Long... and in what better manner than to light up the buttocks of a man in need. Diverts your concerns over your state of chastity does it not?’   

‘Yes,’ I reluctantly must agree.

‘It’s cathartic, a good brisk caning, and it is certainly within the spectrum of your paraphilia. I’m sure you have not been thinking about being drained of spunk for the past few days.’

It’s true. For two days, possibly three, the state of my locked penis has been furthest from my thoughts.    

‘In the video you focused again on my museum piece... my tribute to the antebellum south and the iniquity of slavery. Men in chains. You find interest, Mr. Long. But in what manner?’

‘Historical,’ my reply a prevarication... which I am sure the woman realizes.

She ignores. No response for several minutes.

‘Another date for you, Mr. Long. My whore needs the money... among other things. Report Wednesday at 11:00 a.m. Expect to spend most of the day. And you won’t need to sit.’

‘Yes Ma’am,’ ignoring her humor.


Collared, I kneel, tummy to the bench, knees parted, buttocks high, forehead to the platform.

Having been released from chastity, shaved, then returned to lock up, the assistant once again grazed the razor over my entire body then oiled.

Another date... what will this encounter bring? My heart beat races with trepidation. As I await I hear at the side door the sound of an engine, heavy, pulling up the driveway.

What is to happen? The readied collar has signified in the past that I am to be led about... on two occasions to the secluded and enclosed... hopefully enclosed... backyard of the woman. Plus there is another clue... I have not been restrained to the bench.

The kitchen door above opens. There come footsteps... not soft, not booted. There is no doubt it is my ‘date’.

The footsteps approach. Hands begin smoothing over my hairless oiled skin. Smooth yet firm, such pinch and prod. I am being inspected, a barnyard animal. Considered for slaughter?

The hands draw my wrists behind my back. I am cuffed, rapidly, the woman either in law enforcement or distressingly experienced in restraining a man. The footsteps move to the wall. I then feel fingers about my collar. With a click, I am leashed.

“Come. Up!"

Commands! It is rare. On past visits not a word has been exchanged. My first date, caned in complete silence other than my sobbing and girlish shrieks.

Responding to the tug on the leash, the voice is firm but feminine. I stand and if my sense of direction serves me, she leads to the stairs where I have entered, not those to the backyard.

Step up, step up, step up, she patiently pulls. To the side door I hear the electronic lock release. The door opens. I feel the outdoor air wafting. It reminds of the quick and furtive dashes up the driveway, quirkily thrilled and exposed in nakedness.

Hooded and leashed, there can be no dashes. Yet exposed, yes. But not for long. I am directed to a vehicle, my shin pressing against metal.

“Step up, follow the leash. Be a good boy for me,” the words calm and matronly.

How many... how often... has this woman led about?

I enter. The vehicle must be a van, hopefully without windows. I am pressed to lie down. I feel the leash being tied off. Then cuffs encircle my ankles and I am restrained, made one with whatever will transport me. I am being abducted. 


“Cute body, Nancy. Is he handsome?” the voice of a young woman gushes as a hand smooths along various limbs, then pauses to teasingly tweak my left nipple.

I am shamed to find it feels good.

“I saw a video of him. Yes, he’s more than acceptable, but you know we have to keep him sightless. Bridge club rules.”

I am harnessed, held in full body suspension. And the feel of deep carpeting brushing my toes before being hoisted into the air suggests I am not restrained in a dungeon but instead in this Nancy woman’s livingroom or diningroom.

Whatever is this harness I am strapped into, it is resourcefully comfortable... physically acceptable. But emotionally the notion quickly dawns that my nudity can be displayed for hours without need for respite. How wicked!

“What of the rest of him? His little thing is covered in steel,” the young woman’s voice turning rueful as a hand palms my scrotal sac. “And he’s secreting. Some goo dripping from his little pee pee,” the tone mocking.

“I have the key. And you can be the one to release him, Adrian. As soon as the other girls arrive.”

“Can we jerk him off... after the games?”

“That’s extra. But his file indicates he responds most obediently to...”

I am chagrined when in completing the thought my keeper’s voice turns to a whisper and girlish giggling follows.

“Really! Operant conditioning. Read about it. Did not think it would work other than on dogs and other pets.”

“It does for the likes of this one. You have to want to submit to it... cede to a woman’s authority and control. And trust me, this one is wallowing in perverse delight right now.”

There comes silence as I hear chairs moved and glass and dishware being placed about. Then the doorbell rings, more women enter and I feel my penis fighting its cage. Why?

Why does it so much want to show off?

More hands, more inspection, more female voices, fingers pinch my buttocks. A woman, timbre of voice suggesting maturity, a hand grazing about to bring goose bumps, finds particular interest.

“He’s nicely smooth and kept hairless, Nancy. I like that in a boy. What do you know of him?”

“Name is Edwin Long. Out of work design engineer... low on cash... but not low on depravity. Anything more, you can read his file online.”

The explanation shocks. First the mention of a file concerning me... then learning such can be accessed online!

“When you’re ready to shuffle and deal, I’ll plug him and Adrian will unlock him,” hostess Nancy explains. “He’ll put on quite the show for us, I’ve been assured. But do remember we’re here to play bridge.”

More girlish giggles. In playing bridge I know there are at least four women observing my helpless hanging nakedness.

“And later Adrian wants to jerk him off... which is extra. $50 per hand for anyone who wants to watch.”

Saturday, August 25, 2018

Visit Seven

This is the last snippet from 'Visits'

Do keep in mind the entire story is available at...

Visit Seven

‘You spent copiously, Mr. Long. Two weeks under a woman’s control and you performed nicely. I must wonder what you’d discharge for me after three weeks of denial. Shall we find out?’

The teasing email comes on Tuesday. And though the words taunt and should bring irritation, there remains some degree of complacency. As a result of being drained, three days later my libido has not completely been restored. The glow remains. Though I remained hooded, I must assume the woman is correct, for I sensed the explosions, my rock hard penis firing like a cannon I am sure.

After standing upright, leash tight, neck strained, for what seemed like an hour, there came the sound of a door. And I was heartened to hear the boots thumping on whatever wooden stage I was posed upon, my nose detecting Jean Nate.

It seemed that my swelling penis pressed against its confinement even harder, though I am sure the sensation was psychosomatic. And when there came the click of the lock, the penis cage slipping away, my manly plums pressed through the control ring, I pleased her, throbbing appendage rising to stand at obedient attention.

The leash was tightened, almost to the point of being hung and this of course abetted the tumescence. Then one hand lifted my restrained hands and wrists, bending me over and further stressing my neck and spinal cord. A booted foot pushed apart my feet. A greased finger worked my gluteal cleft, finding my sphincter and lubricating with aplomb.

And then she entered me, one digit, then two, then three. Fingers rummaging about deep within, the woman deftly found my prostate, that normally kneaded with her Feeldoe.

It felt ecstatic... two weeks of neglect ending... my erection waggling about in celebration.

I have read about the so termed hangman’s dance, tension on the neck and spinal cord fostering the curious somatic reaction of erection. And the woman seemed to know this, holding up my cuffed wrists, bending me over to assure utmost tautness.

It felt so good... so welcomed. Yet there I was perched naked and bound on what seemed to be a stage, my untouched penis stabbing the summer air.

Who was watching? Who could see? Outdoors, breezes wafting over oiled defoliated skin... normally such would feel so good. There came stressful thoughts of concern. Yet my need trumped my mental distress.

Yes, such concerns seemed so distant with the amazing manipulation of my gland.

Nothing touched my erection... primed yet frustratingly left without friction... no fingers, no hand, no tongue or lips, and certainly no vaginal warmth and smoothness. I am learning such is the ritual. The prostate manipulation seemed unending. And finally the hand released my wrists and there came the slap to my buttocks.

Yes, fingers within began a more gentle circling motion and I exploded... again on cue... again at the behest of a controlling woman... to please her... to show off... to display myself... my vanquished maleness... my libido hers to govern... the joy welcomed but incomplete as the rush of hormones brought quick repose.

Why do I so much enjoy this? 

‘I have needs, Ma’am,’ my reply disgustingly humble.

‘And such are to be addressed, Mr. Long... at my whim. I needed my playroom for a quick session with an unruly husband. The wife believes in immediate discipline for transgressions, and I caned him prospectively. Thus the diversion and the need to have you wait for me... hooded and bound naked and outdoors. A little too thrilling for you, Mr. Long? Or are we to add exhibitionism to your sick fantasies?’

I read, not knowing how or what to reply.

‘No response? Silence means consent, Mr. Long. See you Saturday. 9:30. Consider leaving your car naked. Dashing across the street wearing nothing more than a steel cockcage will put you in the right frame of mind, I’m sure. And I’ll have a reward for you.’

Reward! Yes, the notion of a reward excites. For I remain locked up. After the boots and scent of Jean Nate departed, the woman’s assistant returned to the stage placed me back in chastity, releasing my leash and leading back into the basement, there to kneel and restore energy after a mental, emotional and physically exhausting ordeal. Wrists uncuffed, with his/her departure, I knew to remove my hood, dress and leave.

‘Yes Ma’am,’ my reply delayed, my mind distracted in envisioning the reward.


I am jittery but able to control the car. Is it the hormonal buildup? Or the prospect of trotting about the woman’s neighborhood wearing only a mass of steel at my pubes?

Will I do it?

Early again, instead or parking and waiting the few minutes until 9:30, I drive around the block, pondering the consequences of being caught. With my penis covered can I still be charged with indecent exposure? And the thought returns... how does the woman know whether I enter and descend the stairs dressed or naked?

There must be hidden cameras, I conclude. The woman is in earnest and would not tempt with a reward unless I have been truly deserving.

At 9:25, I turn again onto the street of my destination, roll to the front of the house and kill the engine.

Decision time!

I grudgingly kick off my shoes. I take a deep breath. I slip off my tee shirt. I check the mirror. No traffic. I check the phone. 9:28. I remove the woman’s fee from the pocket of my shorts, certainly not to leave that behind. Then 9:29 flashes. I am tempted to begin the short but emotionally long journey when it dawns that since I will be running, arriving at the door early will be counterproductive.

So I wait. It is a long minute. I use the time to shimmy about and push the gym shorts to my ankles, the leather seat cool despite the summer heat.

9:30. I push open the car door, stepping from my shorts. Presciently I pick up the garb before my
trek. ‘Dashing’, the woman suggested. And dash I do. In crossing the street, somewhat stumbling in bare feet, I both feel and hear my cockcage bouncing about. With a week’s stubble, the follicles bring annoying pinching. This fosters a contrasting need... to be shaven. Yet I know it will only happen under the humiliating auspices of another... gender of the hands and fingers unknown. 

I find that the morning air wafting over my nudity feels good, but I put aside the distraction focusing on the door. Thirty seconds until it relocks. I have my shorts as backup. I can leave if my timing is off. But what of my reward?.. the need for release... to be penetrated... to yield and be drained of this hormonal glut.

I grip, I turn, I pull. I open. Timing superb.


Hooded I kneel... thighs well parted, buttocks high, head down... and I feel sanguine, mouth gleefully cradling the woman’s end of her double dildo.

I am to be fucked! Anally sodomized. I sense the powerful thrusts, heart thumping in anticipation.

The kitchen door opens. Alas, soft footsteps! Such near. My wrists and ankles are secured.  Waters runs, drawers are opened and closed. I am heartened when fingers work about my steel enclosure. The lock clicks open, the mesh slid away. Fingers work my balls pressing through the tight circle of metal.

No ice! My penis celebrates. But should it? Man or woman? Girl or boy? For whom am I put on display?

Who is it that offers such divine emancipation?

Still, I harden as soft fingers apply lotion. Then the razor expertly whisks about, gently pulling my scrotal sac this way and that to assure every follicle greets the blade’s edge. Would a woman be so knowledgeable of the male anatomy?

I put aside the thought, trying to comfort myself. It is a woman, the hands dainty, the fingers soft.

Lotion coats my arms... then comes the razor... legs... the razor... back... the razor... chest... the razor deftly swirls about my nipples. It feels good, hairlessness becoming acceptable. And my homophobia will not allow me to envision a young male being so caring and attentive.

A warm moist towel cleanses. And then come liberal squirts of unguent followed by massage. Deep. The soft hands suddenly becoming gripping and firm. The kneading of my muscles and flesh is knowing, the technique coming with expertise. My mind no longer envisions a young girl, the training, the experience apparent.

It is a woman I convince myself. It must be.

The massage ends with gobs of unguent spread between my cheeks and a testicle rub, each sphere pressed between thumb and forefinger and pushed about within my sac. Divine. Knowing.

Would a man be so attentive there?

Then comes the clinking of metal. I silently curse, right testicle then left thrust through the confining ring. Then comes ice. My penis deflates, benumbed. The mesh cockcage returns. The lock clicks. I am again in chastity.

Saturday, August 18, 2018

'Dates' published

For those finding interest in 'Visit's and the Edwin Long saga, I have published a sequel.

23,200 words. $5.50



Visit Six

Visit Six

The week goes slowly. I find it difficult to concentrate on work matters. And I am jittery with need. For I have been returned to chastity... and with no relief afforded. Whomever shaved me neatly rinsed my pubes with a warm, wet cloth and then, as the numbness began to dissipate and I felt my penis begin to swell, worked to press the ring about my package, slipped my penis back into its cage and locked me back up.

Distraught, I obediently remained silent. In being well restrained I could not move, certainly not remove the hood. So I waited, the soft footsteps, scurrying about, the sound of running water returning, cabinet drawers opening and closing... all presumably to tidy things up.

Then my limbs were released, I received the pat to my head which has signified the end to every visit and the footsteps moved up the stairs.

Nothing more.

I waited and waited and finally arose, dressed... tee shirt, gym shorts, loafers... and departed.

Thus there will be a second week of denial, the cage ineluctable. A bowl of ice is kept at the ready next to my bed, the NPT thing coming nightly.

Tuesday I receive an email.

‘Hope you appreciate the shave. I am told that my assistant is quick and nimble with the straight edged razor.’

I find the tone of the message to be flippant concerning my condition and the lack of attention. But I dare not be rude or brusque. I have no key.
‘I miss your...’

I type but the words don’t flow. I miss her what? I erase and begin again.

‘Please thank her for the attention. Will I soon be having yours?’

Her attention?’comes a quick reply.

I pause. More flippance in suggesting I have the incorrect gender? Was I tenderly and neatly shaven by guy? The thought disgusts, but I have no way of confirming who shaved me... man or woman. And before I can ask for clarification there comes another email.

‘Saturday, 9:30 a.m. If you want another sordid thrill, remove again your clothing before opening the door.’

I pause in thought. How will the woman know whether I am naked or clothed upon entering? I had not before given that consideration. Yet, as the erudite woman explained in the initial interview, it’s about control, and having me strip naked, exposed to all outdoors, I must suppose is within the spectrum of my paraphilia.

Was it a thrill? 

I am given to inquire whether I will be offered relief... hormonal relief... but conclude the inquiry may be considered temeritous.

‘Yes Ma’am,’ I instead reply.

Such meekness.


Saturday comes. After many days of internal debate, thoughts rambling, I again dress simply, ready to bare myself in an instant.

But will I do it? Even on the drive to the woman’s house I am undecided. And I tell myself, if the woman did not insist... did not command me to disrobe at the side door... why is the matter under consideration?

Just enter. How will she know?

Further muddling my mind is the assistant... she... he... with the tender hands... nimble with the straight edged razor. The shave was quick and knowing... not a nick... and to cleanly scythe the many folds of the scrotal sac is an accomplishment.

Arriving, as always I park across street, better to observe the house and the neighbors. When the cell phone flashes 9:29 I exit, thankfully no Fedex van. It is then that I finally make a decision.

Yes, I seek the sordid thrill. Slipping off my loafers, my tee shirt is pulled over my head. When I hear the lock click, the shorts come down, I bend to gather all, pull open the door and prance within. 

Just seconds of exposure. Yet I feel my penis pressing the steel mesh of its cage. I tell myself it’s the pending attention which excites.

Clothing piled, fee remitted, next to the latex hood is another post it note, more calligraphy.

‘For your neck.’

It’s attached to a thick length of leather, a buckle at one end, holes in the other, a heavily gauged one inch ring embedded in the middle. It’s a collar, I’m sure intended for a large dog, but to be adorning my neck.

I collar myself, pick up the hood and turn to the low bench and platform.

No dildo!

I am given to protest, the fee substantial, my needs to be neglected again. But I remind myself... it’s about control... ceding it.

I thus kneel, pulling the hood over my head... knees well parted, back arched, buttocks high, head low. And once again the wait is short. And once again come the soft footsteps... no boots... no Jean Nate.

I am bound. My heart leaps as the chastity device is unlocked. I instantly harden. Despite not knowing the gender of she/he tending to me, my raging hormones overwhelm reservations... stow any homophobia... concerning the gender of the hands working to slip away the ring.

The scene repeats. Running water. Drawers opening and closing. Ice. I lurch with the chill and deflate I am sure, but in numbness have no basis for the conclusion. Then comes the razor whisking away the week’s stubble. But there is more. The lotion smooths everywhere And I am wont to protest as more than my pubes is defoliated. Arms, legs, buttocks are all denuded.

How am I to explain this? Long sleeve shorts will be needed at work.

The warm wet towel rinses and cleanses. It feels good. It must be a woman I keep telling myself as I enjoy the tenderness.

The touch further soothes as my entire body is coated with slickness, the hands smoothing everywhere.

But then comes more distress. Just as the penile numbness fades, the fingers work to return me to chastity... the ring... the mesh cage... the lock.

It clicks ominously. Another week? I will not be able to work, my attention to detail diverted.

My wrists are released then gently drawn behind me, there to be again secured behind my back. Next my ankles are released and I feel fingers jumbling about my collar and hear a click. There’s pulling on my neck. I am leashed. By whom? By what?

Upward, I know to stand. Then forward I step gingerly, the hood affording nothing but darkness. Slowly, carefully I follow stepping on the tile floor. Through a door, I obey the tugs... being led about in silence. We encounter stairs, not the entrance stairway. The tugs have me stepping up... again... again... again. We are leaving the basement. More steps and I hear a door open, feel the warm breeze of summer.

Outdoors! The leash pulls. I resist. It pulls again. I freeze. Then a hand goes to my right nipple. Fingers squeeze, then twist. It’s agonizing. With another tug I step out... into the sunlight... message received... leash hand to be obeyed.

Naked and bound I am mortified! What of the woman’s concern about the neighbors?

I tell myself I am in her backyard, attempting to bring calm by convincing myself the yard is well fenced.

More tugs my right shin greets wood. With a pull upwards, I know to lift my foot and mount. The leash jostles. No more tugs. But there is slight tension. When I hear the soft footsteps moving away, I realize my leash has been tied off above. I cannot sit or kneel.

The warm breezes bring a curious brisance, my denuded skin well oiled, the sensation welcomed but for being put on display naked, bound and outdoors. Then comes the demented thrill. My penis fights its cage, engorging to defy me.

Why? Why here? Why now?

Control... the woman is broadening the spectrum of my paraphilia. And the surrendering of control comes when not even in her presence.