Wednesday, April 21, 2010

An experiment

I have not before written erotica utilizing complex, cumulative sentences. I have felt that in intending to excite and arouse, simple and direct more quickly and easily brings the desired stimulation.

So this short story of 1,800 words is an experiment. Sentence length averaging 17 words versus most of my stuff averaging 11.

Let me know what you think. Effective or too many verbal speed bumps?


Wrists and biceps held behind, encircled in broad strands of tight leather, the lad meekly stands motionless, ankles likewise encumbered, the cool morning air wafting over nakedness smoothed in youthful perfection, the short single chain which renders his upturned hands useless tensioning the back of his collar. There was a time when the musky animal scent of his bonds brought a continuous reminder of his bondage, a state of which his consciousness no longer needs to be reminded, his obedience well ingrained, his physicality well tamed, his memories of freedom well faded.

"Arch your back, be a good boy for me," the voice emanating from behind.

The words, though kindly uttered each and every morning, are known to be a command. And so each and every morning the lad responds, knowing to bring the demanded curvature to his spine, pushing his head back against the stiffness of his high, thick neck collar, endeavoring to 'point' with the elbows of his folded arms, as he recalls the stern instructions when first so evilly trussed... 'touch your buttocks with your elbows'.

So posing, he feels the cool slipperiness of a well lubricated finger, gloved in clinical indifference, part his cheeks, the forced opening of his gluteal cleft quick, mechanical, well practiced. The digit impales. It swirls about. The unguent lubricates. There is repeated the curious twinge of arousal which strict chastity fosters within the psyche of the virile young male.

His penis seems to lurch, a slumbering beast stirred to wakefulness.

Whereas there is celebration, the display of sexual puissance normally festive... for the male... it comes instead in the form of a knowing snicker from she who freely penetrates. The woman understands the male anatomy, well aware that the virile body is no longer to be availed for self amusement, onanistic pursuits. Instead all celebration is amongst his governing women. Thus the lad lets his mind wander as the finger withdraws and his sphincter is made to again yield, the familiar insertion, though sizeable, slipping with ease past a purse string muscle no longer able to defend.

The penis lurches again, a definite reaction. The beast is awake.

"Good boy," the intonation that of proud mother to compliant child.

Months before, when initially stuffed, the implement was first dangled before him. A warning? A tease?

‘It is a fish hook’, the initial thoughts coming in shock, the curvature of the formidable strip of smooth stainless steel so shaped. ‘I am to be dangled like a prized catch.’

Yet there was no sharp piercing point at the terminus. Instead he noted the bulbous shape of an egg, its utility to become apparent. Yes, he was not to be dangled but instead anally impaled and thereafter made to manipulate his own gland.

There is felt more tension on the neck collar, more tugging, now from the added tether vertically strung from just above his bent elbows to the exposed end of the invading insertion below. He feels the impaling hook shift about as the familiar length of leather first parts his cleft then is brought to tightness before final attachment above. The woman pulls... tight... tighter... taut. She ties and steps back, admiring the awkwardness of the forced posture, a partial hogtie. The suppleness of youth quite useful, ligaments and tendons strain deliciously, the woman knowing that the slowly building torment, the suffering, will augment the desired display of male sexuality... captured, tamed and brought to submission... enduring under the hands of a woman to bring a singular form of arousal.

"There. You're almost ready for the Princess."

Hands held high, wrist restraints well secured to his neck collar, elbow tethers now tightly attached to the impaling hook, the configuration mandates that the lad remain with back arched, his chest thrust forward.

The woman moves to the front, her form large, her manner matronly, composed in the maturity of her years, a handler well accomplished. She smirks. Exposed young flesh attracts, male bondage enthuses, capitulation excites. The result of the added binding is as expected... well known. The cleverly crafted impaling implement of metal pressures the prostate gland. In being connected to his elbow bindings the slightest motion is viscerally felt. Full tumescence slowly but steadily unfolds ... as stated, normally in celebration of virility... the penis now rising as a symbol of feminine dominion.

The lad somewhat wriggles, the movement immediately transferring, tensioning the newly added tether, tightening and jostling the length of leather connected to his impalement, the slight motion spurring another inadvertent yet amusing waggle of his erection.

This brings another snicker, the woman reveling in the humiliation fostered by the ascending level of her control. Reaching forth to tweak an inviting nipple brought to intense sensitivity by burgeoning hormones never to be relieved, she smiles, the pink nub of flesh so well presented for a woman’s amusement.

Frustration spurs a meek whimper. Her touch thrills... but so incompletely.

He would like to beseech... beg... grovel... humbly request that the fondling fingers similarly knead and caress lower... the underside of his upturned manhood quivering in invitation of manipulation, craving the tender welcomed touch of she who so well knows of his need yet so masterfully denies. Perhaps instead she will cradle his scrotum, feel the weightiness of his neglected testicles, shaved to complete glaborousness, as is his entire pubes, his entire body. Yes, the woman sometimes fondles there as well, most deliberate in avoiding that which stands above, that which implores attention.

Disappointment prevails, the finger retracting, the woman pausing in observation, standing arms akimbo as the lad feels the tip of his penis rise to greet his lower belly, upright in utter firmness. Then she turns to retrieve a bottle. The lad knows of the contents, mineral oil, its pleasant effeminate fragrance bringing a contrasting homey comfort to the musky scent of his leather bindings.

“Make you pretty for the Princess."

Gloved hands, slathered with oil, anoint his entire nakedness. The lad closes his eyes with the simple distant joy of touch. She will coat his full form... yet that which most needs the attention of a woman will remain deprived.

Chastity... complete... thorough... forever to be denied normal male sexual exaltation... the penis waggles anew, seeming to beckon hands smooth and slippery, soft hands, knowing hands, hands he has so often felt but have never offered the ultimate joy. The lad imagines the delight to be sensed should the woman cede in deference. ‘Just a stroke’... ah, the thought so sublime. But she never does.

Instead his bronzed nakedness is brought to a glow, glimmering in the room light, the sheen seeming to frame and highlight the massive erection which once stood to emblemize male power.... now symbolizing the unfettered authority of his female captor.

He is owned. A toy. An object. To be displayed, to amuse, to entertain, yet there is enuring within an odd pride. Relegated to one goal, his simplified life... really mere existence... offers a singular challenge. That is to offer himself in full stand, swelled penis pointing skyward, the interminable interval of tumescence no longer daunting, as the Princess, bathes, reads, lunches... his organ performing for her during whatever portion of the day brings the most amusement.

"It is time," the hands retreating.

The lad would so much like to offer humble words, a thank you for the woman's attentive touch, however ephemeral. But he cannot. Gagged... always... constantly... relieved of the vocal constraint only to be fed, he is to be seen not heard, the marauding silencing lump of rubber cruelly filling the entire cavity of his mouth. He only spoke once, unwittingly breaking a well known and well explained rule.

His one time utterance earned the death sentence for his vocal cords. Serving as example to his cohorts, no one else breaks the rule. Now he has learned to not even murmur, all sound fruitless.

Reaching to his nose, the fingers of a controlling hand work to attach a leash, a clasp slipping within his nostrils, finding the painfully inserted grommet occupying the opening forced into the cartilage between his nostrils, clicking closed, the thin strand of connecting leather offering the holder thorough command of his naked form.

“Come,” the voice pleasant yet firm.

A mind dulled with the tedium of constant restraint is instantly drawn to attention. Yes, with the myriad of nerve endings subjected to the slightest tension, obedience is quick, the desire to follow governing tugs most elevated. When the woman turns, the lad knows to step in anticipation, tethered ankles and hobbling chain permitting a most modest and dainty tread. In being walked naked within the castle, his concentration will not be diverted by the gaze of tittering young maids. Instead, his obeisance becomes focused. Pain, he has learned through its constant and staunch application, is to be avoided. It is meted without compunction, cleverly dispensed to leave no marks, result in no permanent harm... physically... his body is prized. However the mental scars are many.

He most docilely follows, not having to look down, knowing that the rock hardness of his manhood points the way, feeling its ponderousness bob with every step. He feels his motion translate to jostling tension on his elbow tether. Deep within, the impaling hook kneads his uniquely male gland, summoning more engorgement. His own motion abets hardness, each step bringing visceral caress.

Such wickedness!

Concentration not to be diverted, his footfalls many, a prance, childlike steps, the ungainly motion causes his heavy testicles to slap his thighs. Yes, the neglected scrotal sac feels burdensome, filled with essence, never to be relieved. The woman turns, looking back, smiling, her delectation apparent. Leading a well bound naked male pleases. There is insouciance yet there is pleasure, pleasure in her control, pleasure in knowing it is by her hand that such a magnificent organ has been brought to full blossom, that what the male most covets, a woman can so facilely bring to feminine governance.

A maid, young pretty, she pauses to view the procession, master and leashed... leashed what? A performing creature, well tamed, well trained, brought forth to be displayed, to amuse, to be placed on stage, a show of virility yet virility so well bridled.

“You’re standing nicely. The Princess will be pleased.”

The lad blushes. The peering young maid? A sense of fulfillment of his singular role? He is kept, fed, exercised, massaged, prinked, preened and impaled, for one purpose. Yes, there is curious pride in achieving. His manhood waggles in response, the gesture of submission broadening the woman’s smile.

Cognizance. She has handled so many, brought so many to bondage, trained so carefully, nurtured so many erections, coaxed so many to so fully stand at a woman’s whim, so often transformed, modified, altered the male psyche.

He enjoys... and she knows it.