Saturday, May 12, 2012

'To Serve Intact' XI

Lathered on the grooming table, I reflect on the grueling day, being endlessly walked in circles. The capstan turned and turned without relent. I once again subordinated myself to a machine for hour after hour.

Thus as Brandi adoringly massages, including a good brisk testicular rub down of course, I am grateful for her tendance... an opportunity to rest.

Displayed as an object, a symbol of feminine authority, the girl leisurely ‘dressed’ her beau... clothes pin after clothes pin... to his scrotum... to the meat of his mammary glands encircling the nipple pins... down one side of his turgid penis then up the other. He winced, he moaned, but he protested not, his hands obediently folded to the back of his head.

All while observing my subjugation, leashed and compelled to be subservient to a mechanical device. Did my exhibition serve as a catalyst for his priapic reaction? The soft but dominant words of the girl? Perhaps having his forced nakedness displayed before the fully clothed pretty girl, the powerful psychological contrast highlighted by a diddling finger so gingerly and faintly applied to the very tip of his upturned stiff manhood, spurred his arousal despite having to endure the steady suffering of clothes pin after clothes pin.

Having finished her wine and a sumptuous meal, the boy offered none, having applied dozens of pins, the girl moved to seat herself atop the table at the edge, facing me and the controlling device and guiding pole. She then snapped her fingers and pointed to the soil between her dangling feet. The youth shuffled, the many clothes pins bobbing about. He knelt between her knees, hands remaining where demanded. Then the girl lifted the hem of her flowing flimsy sarong. It became time for oral servitude, the lad’s head dipping then slipping forward between her knees and under the flowing colorful garb.

So I labored away, watching as best as my nose restraint permitted as the naked chastised islander performed cunnilingus, my well bound nakedness serving to spur the girl’s concupiscence no doubt.

Sounds of wet flesh, moans of pleasure, sighs of delight, yes, the girl laid back and wiled away the afternoon having her beau, physically tormented by the many gripping pins, emotionally tormented in being half masturbated, lick away beneath the billowing garment.

Master’s dictates, so simple but so effective in engendering a female led enclave.

Finally there came a stifled but climactic shriek of joy, the thighs squeezing tightly in what I imagined to be a thunderous orgasm. Then the girl lifted her feet to the boy’s shoulders and pushed. He fell backwards to the soil, the hormonal shift of the girl’s release rapidly transforming the sensitivity of her quim, the tongue and lips deemed to irritate rather than bring further delight.

In falling, the clothes pin at the right nipple snapped away, and the boy howled in intense agony, the pain ironic in exceeding that endured when the nub was first caressed and clothes pinned. The girl laughed. Sitting up she wriggled her finger, commanding the boy to pick up the freed pin and stand before her. The pin was returned in place with another howl, the nipple now hyper sensitive.   

She remained seated. He stood and the tip of the index finger renewed its slow teasing, tormentingly tantalizing circling motion at the underside of the penis tip. The organ waggled. Pre ejaculatory fluid streamed in excess... but no ultimate relief was granted.

That was it. The girl satiated with what I judged to be nearly an hour of oral servitude... the boy... torment and frustration.

Clothes pins remaining, the boy was instructed to stow the remnants of the picnic lunch and then the duo left, the many gripping implements bobbing about, evidencing a young girl’s wicked callousness.     

Brandi coats my cleansed form with a powerful chemical depilatory. I squirm as it burns, its weekly application assuring that the dignity of hair, however feeble the growth, is forever denied.  Then at last she rinses, a nice large fluffy towel drying. Finally after a long day of exhausting exertion, I am bedded, a dainty finger thrust through my nose ring to guide me to my mat.  
I never move without direction, a shepherding finger... a controlling leash. I never rest without restraint. Always under feminine control, Brandi secures the brackets about the ends of my yoke, my ankle bands likewise restrained to waiting rings embedded in the concrete floor. The hood brings darkness. It is welcomed.

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