Saturday, December 30, 2017

The Trophy, Segment Nine

This will be the final posted segment. As noted, the full story is available from Lulu.

Happy New Year

Not sure what is next or when.

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A slumbering Mrs. Casperson is awakened, the lock of the cage door clicking. After watching the steamy love making for nearly an hour, the forceful woman of color offered a high pitched shriek of ecstasy and a convincing squeeze of her thighs. Master Arlen grunted, no doubt spending copiously.

A weary Mrs. Grayson rose from the bed, quickly slipped the hood over the bald head then returned to where the copulating duo seemed to both pass out, Mrs. Grayson slumping to lie at Master Arlen’s side.

It was only then that Mrs. Casperson allowed herself to close her eyes, another night of observing her husband and Master revel in continuous carnal delight finally concluding.  

Shaking her head as best as the Rigid Stock allowed, her welling tears were absorbed by the thick black cloth. Then Mrs. Casperson let sleep overcome, the emotionally and physically exhausting day finally ending.

But now the cage door lowers, the design such that a portion of the top folds away as well. The hood is slipped away. Eyes adjust. In the dimness she notes it is Master Arlen, propping up the lowered section of the cage such that it forms a low seat.

“Thought you’d like a little taste, dear,” Master Arlen whispers in seating himself.

“Please no, Arlen... ah... sir.”

“Oh but you must. I insist on you sharing in the joy. Mrs. Grayson is an accomplished lover and there is so much for you to partake.”

Helplessly bound, unable to move her head other than to slightly twist, Mrs. Casperson has no manner of resisting as the moist well worn appendage is presented to waiting lips.

“Clean me... it’s your wifely responsibility... in fact it’s about the only responsibility you have.... other than to pose for me.”

The notion... the deed... disgusts. Mrs. Casperson’s nose detects the scent of vaginal essence, the musky odor of perspiration. The penis remains coated... semen, sweat, the spendings of the concupiscent Mrs. Grayson as well.

“You know I don’t like to...”

“To orally gratify, yes. I learned that on our wedding night, remember, dear. Matter of fact you don’t much like engaging in any sexual frolicking, do you? I married a Princess... to be pampered and adored. And I do... do I not? Lots of time and effort assuring my beautiful mate is properly displayed... properly cared for... never to be sullied by being put under the penis.

“But I think you’ll accommodate your husband... just a little.”

Mrs. Casperson feels the manly plums of her husband press to her forehead. A hand reaches pinching closed her nostrils. When she next draws a breath, forced to take air through her mouth, an odorous semi engorged penis greets her lips, thrusting inward.        

“No biting, dear, otherwise you’ll lose that pretty smile. It’s best not to make any dental modifications necessary,” the ominous words pleasantly proclaimed.

‘Have I a choice?’ Mrs. Casperson quickly concludes ‘no’.

“Good girl. Such a kindness,“ the mocking words coming as the lips purse, the tongue swishes. “This could be your only household chore, my dear. And it may be that Mrs. Grayson could use some attention as well. You may well enjoy her taste too. She takes care of you... would you not want to take care of her?”

The thought brings more disgust. Particularly alarming is Mrs. Grayson’s overt bisexuality, relishing every moment in the basement salon... bathing, massaging naked female flesh.... then feathering a neglected quim... bringing to the very edge of orgasm.

Yes, there is no doubt that, given the opportunity, Mrs. Grayson would also lower the cage door and sit. 

The penis stiffens, an engorging tip pressing to the back of the throat. Mrs. Casperson, well aware of her husband’s endowment, begins to panic. Not orally accomplished, she slightly gags, quickly realizing a fully erect Master Arlen would choke her if not offering some refuge. She shakes her head as best she can, murmuring indiscernible words, beseeching mercy.

Arlen Jacobs Casperson intuitively understands, slightly retreating.

“We will have to better acclimate you my dear. It’s... well... a required skill set for a woman of your ilk.”

There comes a thrust... as a demonstration of his power, her vulnerability... followed by choking. Then a hand reaches and the organ is withdrawn. Mrs. Casperson closes her eyes in shame. Once again becoming an object, on this occasion a receptacle for the remnants of love making.

Still she feels a distant sense of feminine satiation. Having watched as husband and lover brought each other intense gratification, attention at last comes to her. She tries to buck her hips, frottage against the replicas of her husband’s penis so deeply penetrating her.  

Why?

It is futile, her chastity belt so tightly secured. Still she wants more... desperately needs more.

As the cage door is lifted, there comes a need to know as well.

“Why Arlen? Why does it have to be like this?”

“How else am I to adore you, dear? You’re to be on a pedestal... to be shown. Such beauty is to be idolized.”

“But I so much need... you know... attention... full attention. And I’m getting fatter... and my nipples! It feels like... well... someone is pinching them. They’re going to be horribly shaped. The cones... they’re too tight! Why are you doing this?”

“Because I can. And there are some practicalities to your... ah... enhancements. And in terms of the attention you think you so desperately need, you’ll have that when I breed you... utilize more of Mrs. Grayson’s skills.”

Monday, December 25, 2017

The Trophy - Published

I have completed the referenced short story. Male/Female Dominant, female submissive. Available from Lulu. 19,000 words. $5.50.

Now you know how demented minds spend the holidays. Merry Christmas again.

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/the-trophy/22314155

 

 

Saturday, December 23, 2017

The Trophy, Segment Eight



Merry Christmas everyone!

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To the bedroom, an erect Arlen Jacobs Casperson visits the bathroom. Nurse Grayson disrobes, shunning her stunning evening dress and all else, then moving to the cage in complete deshabille. Mrs. Casperson gazes in silence as her bindings are checked... the ends of the Martin Rigid Stock, the ankle shackles, the short tight cables restricting the motion of her chastity belt and hips.

Peering at the bronzed woman of authority, Mrs. Casperson finds envy. Though Joan Grayson is some ten years her senior, she is fit... attractive in an athletic way... seemingly prepared to run a marathon... engage in any number of athletic pursuits. She exudes confidence. The woman is handsome... and she knows it... comfortable in her role as keeper and caregiver.

In contrast, the lady of the house senses self disgust. There’s the extra twenty five pounds... the shaven head... the missing eyebrows... the nipples grotesquely forced into the shape of darts.

Further assessing, Mrs. Casperson notes the breasts are of size... not large but certainly not small. Between thighs of stone, a trimmed mons reveals reddish brown outer labia yielding to flashes of inner pink as the woman moves about. Above, Mrs. Casperson is amazed to note rippling abdominal muscles, indeed the woman exercises with fervor. 

The extensive conditioning has fashioned a feminine figure built for unending copulation. Mrs. Casperson knows, the head end of her cage intentionally positioned such that the grunts, groans shrieks and sighs of love making are within arms reach, should her wrists ever be freed.

“I’ll hood you in a while. It’s Mr. Casperson’s orders that you watch,” the nurse reminds, positioning on the top of the cage the thick black cloth left behind by maid Maria.

The master of the house exits the bathroom. With the thoughts of carnal pursuits, the front of his bathrobe tented by an erection undiminished. He looks at his caged and well bound wife and smiles wickedly. To the bed he positions himself on his back, opening his robe, libidinously beckoning for Mrs. Grayson to join him.

Vulnerable, completely helpless, Mrs. Casperson dares not protest. There is nothing she can do. Even in closing her eyes she will hear... even smell the prospective lovemaking.

When Mrs. Grayson turns, stepping onto the nearby bed, there comes more envy, nicely shaped buttocks, seemingly chiseled, propel her into position. 

Straddling the supine Master of the house, she smiles, grasping the mammoth male organ and aligning with her quim then slowly lowering to bring a sigh of delight. Yes, she rides on top... night after night of love making, her muscled form working and working, draining Master Arlen of all he can offer. Tomorrow morning a mocking master of the house will describe for his chastised wife every thrust, every squeeze of his lover’s thighs, every oscillation of vaginal walls honed to deplete the penis of all male essence.

At least that is how the narration will seem. 

It’s bizarre watching the lustful interaction upside down. As Mr. Casperson frequently teases... ‘if you’d like better viewing I’ll have Mrs. Grayson accommodate you. But you’ll not sleep as well kneeling upright.’

‘Why like this? Why is this happening?’ a dispirited Mrs. Casperson asks herself. But then the provocative questions of Mrs. Grayson come to mind... why do you let him do this?.. why do you want him to do this?

Saturday, December 16, 2017

The Trophy, Segment Seven


Though the Martin Rigid Stock holds Mrs. Casperson’s head and shoulders some twelve inches above the bottom of the cage, in finally lying somewhat supine, she can more comfortably rest.

She thinks about her long day, just another of many, being placed on display for husband Arlen Jacobs Casperson... for the gawking eyes of business associate Charles Hanson. She thinks of the exacting but strict care of Nurse Grayson, her body no longer hers, instead now many pounds of growing flesh to be ignominiously molded and exhibited.

Each day she is weighed, Mrs. Grayson smugly calling out the slow but steady gain.

Twenty five pounds! Formerly quite athletic, Mrs. Casperson thinks of all the expensive equipment for exercise in the basement. Now denied its use, Mrs. Grayson instead gleefully proclaims her workouts... on machines given to her as gifts!

And now, having been bedded at an hour when infants are placed in their crib, husband Arlen and Mrs. Grayson enjoy together an after dinner drink. It infuriates, but what is it she can do? There is further aggravation in looking upwards to the large bed which, for a week or two after her honeymoon, she shared with her esteemed husband. And now, though having to observe upside down, in the dim room light she must watch as her husband and Mrs. Grayson engage in unending carnal lust.

There come thoughts of Maria... a young termagant. A maid!.. yet having the temerity to demand the lady of the house call her ‘Miss’!

What is happening!    

Meanwhile on the porch, Arlen Jacobs Casperson and Mrs. Grayson partake in a glass of rare port, enjoying the setting sun on a beautiful summer’s evening.

“How many more pounds, Arlen? It will become more and more difficult to lead her about hooded, leashed and hobbled with a couple more weeks of weight gain.”

“I suppose another ten to fifteen should decimate any feminine pride in her appearance. Plus there’s you know... there will be the weight gain of my child.”

“You know in pregnancy the chastity belt will need to come off. The waist adjustments can only be expanded so far.”

“Yes, Joan, I’m aware,” the formality of surnames dispensed with when alone. “But without it, she’ll feel even more naked and exposed, don’t you think?”

“I can only imagine the humiliation felt in putting her on display... fattened, belly bulging, lengthy nipples and with breasts ready to let down. But you used to like her body. Quite voluptuous. Why the change?”

“Because I can do it, I suppose. And in a way she’s becoming even more voluptuous... in my mind it’s like sculpting a statue. I have the power to make it into anything I desire. It excites”

A hand of dark brown slips to the lap of the master of the house. With a firm yet tender grope, beneath the zipper knowing fingers find a stiffening appendage, gently stroking through the cloth.

“Yes it does, Arlen, doesn’t it? And to remind you, I’m going to need a sperm sample... probably more than one.” 

“I know but... well... you make a good bed, Joan. It will disappointing to forgo.”

“Only for one or two nights. The sperm count will need to be maximized. You’d not want me having to impregnate her more often than absolutely necessary. It is best that her denial to be as strict as possible.”

A lecherous Arlen Jacobs Casperson smiles, sipping his port, feeling his manhood come to full erection. The hand motion is marvelous. Every woman should be imbued with such skills, he mentally concludes. Perhaps best trained as teens to tease and titillate the male organ.
    
“Let’s see if Maria has Mrs. Casperson properly bedded for the night, shall we? She has certainly stepped into the role with... well... I suppose... unexpected willingness, hasn’t she? You’ve trained her well, Joan.”

“And what else would you like me to train her to do?” the query coming with a mischievous smile.

The zipper is slid open. The firm knowing hand glides within to find the now rock hard impressive phallus. The fingers close about the girth as Joan Grayson arises from her chair.

“Enough port, Arlen. You have other needs.”

Having guided about the leashed lady of the house, it is now the master of the house’s turn to subordinate to the imposing caregiver. Arlen Jacobs Casperson shrugs then cedes, rising from his chair as well, his penis following as nurse Joan Grayson leads to the bedroom.

Saturday, December 9, 2017

The Trophy, Segment Six


“Would you please, Maria? Upstairs and caged, Mrs. Grayson and I will be having an aperitif on the porch. It’s a delightful evening,” the Master of the house speaks.

Maid Maria smiles, enthused that she is to be empowered. As Mrs. Grayson returns the well bound Mrs. Casperson to sightlessness, the young Hispanic girl knows to go to the armoire where there rests the leash.

Hood in place, a mocha hand clips on the leash and jostles, pulling as Nurse Grayson helps with the chair. As Mrs. Casperson knows to carefully rise, Arlen Jacobs Casperson smiles, the sound of the rattling hobbling chain bringing glee.

“Is this necessary, Arlen? I can find my way to the bedroom.”

“Yes, I’m sure you can. But moving about on your own would tend to empower. Your role is to be seen... not to think... not even to act unless it is under the tutelage of another. And young Maria is happy to assist.”

Clumsily, Mrs. Casperson turns, obediently subordinating herself to the lowest member of the household. A foot carefully shuffles forth on the carpeting, the hobbling chain restrictive as always.

“And it’s Sir... or Master. You must learn to be respectful, dear.”

Out the dining room to the stairs, maid Maria feels twinges within her loins, sensing great thrill. She leads, taking two steps up, knowing to both shorten and tighten her grip to preclude mishap.

Step, step, step, finally the second floor of the sizable mansion is reached. Down the hallway, to the bedroom, the sleeping quarters massive.

Though Maria is a neophyte to bondage, Mrs. Grayson has taught her how to cage the lady of the house, assuring safety, a degree of physical comfort... yet endless mental and emotional stress.

‘It’s important to her... something you’ll understand in time. Girls of Mrs. Casperson’s ilk have needs... and we are here to assure such are addressed. Any begging and pleading must be ignored. When given the leash you are in charge... complete charge.’

Such a thrill in first hearing the words, the role of a maid normally reporting to and being inferior to all. And the thrill returns each time she is assigned the chore.

To the cage. It is low, waist height. The bars are many, spaced such that a hand can easily be slipped within, the nakedness of Mrs. Casperson to be kneaded, caressed, palpated by anyone at anytime. Ingeniously designed, expensively crafted, the opening at the front locks at the top and for entry lowers to the floor. Hinged, when folded down, a section of the top bars folds away with it. To the carpet it can be propped up on folding legs, forming a convenient seat. Within the cage are stanchions similar to those on the basement cleansing platform with brackets to hold in place the ends of the Martin Rigid Stock.

Yes, Mrs. Casperson spends the night with wrists and neck remaining encumbered. The height to be held is adjustable, the ends of the Rigid Stock to be slid up or down depending on the desired comfort level to be afforded.

Mrs. Casperson has spent many sleepless nights in punishment, lying prone, head, arms and wrists suspended some six to eighteen inches above the cage floor.

Maria releases the lever, the front opening folding down to the carpet.

”Kneel,” commands, pulling downward on the leash.

Mrs. Casperson complies... must comply... and the hobbling chain is removed, the hood slipped away.

“On your back,” smiling in noting the instant obedience.

Ah, to finally lie supine. It’s like a reward, Mrs. Casperson not to resist or complain.

 “And slide...  in you go Mrs. Casperson. Beddy bye time. You know how you are to be positioned for the night.”

She does. Though well rehearsed, being caged is awkward. She lies in the cage supine and to enter Mrs. Casperson must extend her legs inward then slide herself, with Maria’s assistance, feet first. It’s time consuming, the effort slow and ungainly. 

Supine form in place, the Rigid stock is secured right and left. Then for good measure the ankle shackles are secured to the bars, the width of the cage forcing apart the thighs.

Maria folds up and locks the cage opening. Stepping to the bedroom door, she then recalls the final binding, Mrs. Grayson quite specific in explaining its need.

‘She is not to frottage. You can only imagine the nastiness to come about in being able to move  her hips,’ the vaginal and anal inserts disclosed to a tittering young maid.

Thus Maria returns. Short cables hanging in wait at the middle bars are pushed inward and clipped to eyelets on the chastity belt, right hip then left. This brings complete immobility, Mrs. Casperson not to wriggle about her hips and thighs to more fully enjoy the penile replicas of Master Arlen Jacobs Casperson. 
      
It’s a final cruelty, Maria thinks to herself. But it is as Mrs. Grayson explained... women of a certain ilk have needs...
 
“Do you really enjoy this, Mrs. Casperson?” an intrigued maid Maria cannot help asking.

“Would it matter if I did not, Maria?”

“That’s Miss Maria please,” a hand reaching within the bars to firmly pinch the rubber casing of the right nipple.

With a moan and a spasmodic shudder of pain, Maria smiles, noting her message is well received. Dousing the lights, in departing, within her loins she senses moisture.

Saturday, December 2, 2017

The Trophy, Segment Five


“Did you nap well my dear? Posing for Hanson tired you I’m sure.”

“Arlen, I can’t sleep like that... not very well.”

“A little too stressful? And do mind your manners.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry Sir.”

It’s dinner time. Arlen Jacobs Casperson sits enjoying a sumptuous meal with his wife and an elegantly dressed Mrs. Grayson, uniform dispensed for the remainder of the evening. It is an otherwise charming family scene... but for the fact that Mrs. Casperson remains totally nude, wrists and neck encapsulated in the Martin Rigid Stock, gleaming belt of steel assuring chastity and that the replicas of Mr. Casperson’s manhood remain nesting deeply.

Afternoon naps are mandatory, a hooded and leashed Mrs. Casperson returned to the office of her husband. Hood remaining in place, there she sits on the floor upright, the ceiling cables attached to the Rigid Stock to assure she cannot lie down. Hobbling chain removed, her ankle shackles remain in place, secured such that her legs are spread left and right as far as the demanding Mrs. Grayson can part them.

And further to Mrs. Casperson’s chagrin, that is quite far.

“Well, you were breathing quite slowly and deeply for a time. I’m sure you got some rest,” husband Arlen once again glancing throughout the afternoon to adore the breasts of perfection while following the market.

“More like I passed out, Sir.”

Master Arlen takes another spoonful of rich lobster bisque. Mrs. Grayson spoons from a bowl of white thickness and offers the sustenance to the waiting lips of her helpless charge. It’s bland tasteless fare, but Mrs. Casperson knows it is all she will be given and thus to partake, despite the insalubrious nature of the offering.  

She is to be fattened... it has been decreed.

“Why is it again we spread her like that Mrs. Grayson?” the inquiry ostensibly naive.

“It’s the inserts, Mr. Casperson. To otherwise allow the pelvis to move about, your wife could oscillate the vaginal and anal implants, possibly achieving an orgasm. She needs to be well supervised when in the sitting position... just as she is now,” Mrs. Grayson’s proximity at the dinner table not solely for feeding

“An orgasm! Well... we’ll not have that. Not without my consent.”

The command brings a wry smile, reminding the highly trained nurse of the afternoon bath, enemas, massage, and feathering.

A maid pops from the kitchen, serving platters of prime rib. Acclimated to the deviant scene, she notes Mrs. Casperson’s half empty bowl of whatever, steps to an armoire and returns to ladle more of the thick white for consumption. Her presence brings distress, Mrs. Casperson not only placed on display but essentially deemed to be inferior to a servant.

“Thank you, Maria,” Arlen Jacobs Casperson so much enjoying his wife’s discomfort.

The maid returns to the kitchen. The prime rib is attacked, the fragrance compelling.

“Maria does such a wonderful job, keeping the house neat and tidy and us well fed. You have an idyllic life my dear. Not a care in the world. Don’t have to lift a finger. Just to be adored. Can you please, Mrs. Grayson...” Master Arlen nodding to the rubber encased nipples.

Mrs. Grayson is well aware of the gesture. Though protruding, pointing like pencils, the desired firmness, the exhibition which is so much coveted, has somewhat waned. The soup spoon is placed aside. Mrs. Casperson blushes as nimble fingers ever so gently flick and diddle the pink, purplish tips. Within moments they return to standing at attention.

“Really Sir,” Mrs. Casperson’s protest meekly postulated. “Please...”

“You know how I prefer you, dear. It’s mandatory. You’re to be presented. Posing... exhibited... displayed.... in the manner I desire.”

“What about these rubber things, Sir? They’re quite... ah... constricting.”

“You’ll become accustomed. Mrs. Grayson is going to... well... let’s say improve your presentation. Plus they’ll be more... term it... functional.” 

A smiling Arlen Jacobs Casperson swigs a fine Merlot then returns his attention to the succulent beef. He is sanguine, the power to transform quietly exhilarating. Plus in having spent the afternoon observing his cherished Mrs. Casperson, listening to her pleas as the knowing nurse brought her to the very brink of orgasm, there is warmth within his loins.

Tonight, it will be early to bed, Mrs. Grayson’s final deed to bring forth for him the ecstatic release so long denied to his ravishing wife. 
 

Saturday, November 25, 2017

The Trophy, Segment Four

Glancing downward to see his trousers tented, Arlen Jacobs Casperson feels like a horny pubescent school boy. Such delightful viewing. The frustration of his naked wife both amuses and excites.

For now, remaining secured to the granite platform, the dark brown expert hand of Nurse Grayson applies a feather, ever so evanescently grazing the inner labia, the color of the bright red flushed flesh deepening. There is moisture, further evidencing the arousal... and the need. The right hand and fingers work to stroke, stroke, stroke. Slowly... endlessly.

Master Arlen presses the remote to turn up the volume, the pleaful moans enhancing his enjoyment. He presses again, splitting the screen. To the left side, camera number one focuses on the bald head and face.... camera number three continuing to light up the screen with an exhibition of intimate feminine anatomy. 

He notes the clitoris has grown to enormity. Vaginal essence flows in abundance. When the feather moves downward, now plying the teasing pleasure to the engorged pearl, a dark brown middle finger of the left hand slips inward. Arlen Jacob Casperson knows it assesses... feeling the pounding circulation of the aroused Mrs. Casperson by way of her vaginal walls. The nurse knows that with the slightest sense of oscillation.... signaling pending climax... the feather and finger will be abruptly withdrawn.

No full orgasms! Ever! It is a dictate of the master of the house. His trophy wife to always be kept on the edge, her only full pleasure to exhibit herself... and to view his pleasure.

His view changes to the face. It contorts. Eyes clenched, mouth open. An unwitting viewer would assume the woman is being spanked, perhaps whipped... not enduring the faint unending pleasure of a feather.

Alas it comes. With the spread thighs quivering, the feathering stops, the penetrating finger instantly withdraws. There comes a scream.

“No! Please! More! You can’t leave me like this.”

“Oh, but I can... and I will. Your master’s orders.”

Master Arlen presses the remote. The lens of camera three zooms outward, the right side of the screen displaying the full body from behind. As Mrs. Grayson steps to the sink, there is again an unimpeded view. A weak, further exhausted Mrs. Casperson struggles to remain kneeling in place, her hips bucking, mimicking copulation, trying desperately to complete the lustful deed.

It is for naught. And the futile efforts bring a devious smile.

Mrs. Grayson returns, cleaned dildos, cleaned chastity device, placing the instruments on the platform between the parted feet.

Knowing she must let the glow of unfinished masturbation fade, a finger first lubricates the anus, supple and remaining moist from the many enemas.

“Press yourself open for me. Be a good girl. Your husband returns,” she mocks, reminding that the phalli replicate the impressive organ of the Master of the house. 

Mrs. Casperson knows to obey, knows she is to be returned to unending chastity. In being so thoroughly bound, there can be no resistance. She is to bear whatever master husband Arlen demands. Thus she presses, knowing that in being so well cleansed, colon empty, her rose bud will accept the impaling cone of rubber without mishap. And indeed, it slips inward... with embarrassing ease.

Nurse Grayson knows to pause, letting the steamy loins further cool, the broiling hormone levels rebalance, the endocrine system settle in disappointment.  

Finally the second impalement is pressed to the mons, the tip rubbing up and down, the yawning opening welcoming the dildo’s return. It likewise glides inward with ease.

The foam lined belt of steel encircles the waist. The triangular cod piece is connected. Pressed to the gluteal cleft then locked in place at the small of the back, the stuffed portals, vagina and anus, will be forced to sense her Master’s faux penises.

“All secured... all locked up... you must feel nicely kept. Deep within, it warms does it not?” Nurse Grayson derides. “It is best for girls like you. You feel safe in being owned... made to perform,” a comforting hand smoothing over the buttocks.

The uniformed nurse steps to the front, smoothing her hand again, now over the bald head.

“You’re fortunate with your husband’s mastery. There are those who are caned and whipped. I’ve treated many welts over the years.

“Some food... oatmeal with butter and cream... and then a nice nap. But first, something your Master wishes you to endure for him.”

From a cabinet come a set of tongs and a pair of balloon-like cones, appearing to be of thin red rubber. The diameter the size of her pinky finger, Mrs. Casperson notes they are open on each end.

“We’re going to be stretching your nipples. Initially uncomfortable, in time you’ll adapt. Think of the sensation as your husband graciously suckling you.” 
  
Mrs. Casperson shudders as cone of rubber number one is slipped over the tongs. How can her perfectly shaped nicely rounded nipples fit into a strip of confining rubber shaped like that?

 She learns. The tongs are pried open, stretching the rubber. Next gripping her right aureola, the cone is rolled over the pink flesh. Then the tongs are slipped away leaving the rubber in place to squeeze firmly, reshaping the nipple into a dart, the very tip protruding past the open end.

Mrs. Casperson gasps. There is discomfort, yes. But the grotesque shape is of more consequence.

“Why?” comes the pitiful question as the left breast receives equal attention.

Nurse Grayson silently completes the deed, bringing a second gasp. She smiles in seeing tears form. 

“Because he can,” the reply coming as index fingers left and right ever so slightly diddle the exposed tips, empurpled and prominent.

The gentle toying counters the distress of the gripping sensation. Mrs. Casperson is chagrined to find the woman’s touch is welcomed... chagrined as well that Nurse Grayson is so well aware.