'To Serve Intact' XIII

The trip to the village was quick. Despite the heavily loaded chariot... Master and some dozen shackles and chains... I pulled with vigor. Yes, as Master mounted, Brandi’s caring fingers splayed my buttocks and inserted Jackie’s ‘gift’... a stout plug of ginger root... figging me.

The effect is threefold... first setting afire my anus... second spurring incomparable firmness in an organ already steeled by desire and Viagra... third inspiring a need to run, working into a rapid sweat to dilute the plug’s juices.

The latter does not work of course... but Master is quite proud of the results. And she needs not apply the crop. My speed has sufficed.

Yes, entering the village square being transported by a well harnessed perspiration coated Caucasian makes quite the impression among the African locals. With every outing, every moment exposed to the sun, I am coated with sun block, keeping my bare flesh alabaster. I am akin to the white stallion of a Hollywood adventure script, the ooos and ahhhs of the native islanders I am sure bringing a smile of Schadenfreude to Master. 

The right rein tightens directing me to circle once the poster board and punishment platform where public fellatio is performed by offending males.

Master dismounts, snapping her fingers. Two naked local males scurry forth. She directs the many shackles and chains to be placed on the platform. Then she mounts the low stage and unfurls a rolled piece of paper... a poster with sizable print. A crowd gathers, many feminine eyes admiring the state of my penis, standing in tribute to Master.

“More dictates,” Master announces in her authoritative voice.

“Dictate number three... no male is to use the toilet without both the permission and supervision of a woman.”

Master pauses for effect then continues in a lower tone.  

“Too much temptation to play when permitted the seclusion of the bathroom. This rule is corollary to the ban on masturbation. And I recommend whenever possible the direction of the penis be controlled by a woman as well. Males are not to touch themselves there.”

The crowd collectively snickers. Master has further empowered, the island males not daring to disobey, her elastrator quick, her hands determined. 

“Dictate number four... males both young and old will be bathed by a woman.”

Another pause. Then the voice again lowers to offer more explanation.

“Mother’s, aunts, sisters, cousins... males are not to touch themselves... even in washing themselves. I strongly recommend the male be bathed by more than one woman, perhaps a group. Intimacy is not to be offered.”

This time there are murmurs of appreciation, the dictate wickedly thoughtful in furthering the goal... of gynecocracy.

The male body, already constantly exposed and displayed, will now be open to cleansing... examining, palpating fingers and feminine hands explicitly given the right of access by the Emperor’s potentate. Women’s bodies remain private and intimate... all males are to concede access... to any and all.

“Dictate number five... all males will be fed... from a woman’s hand. Food will be a reward. For obedience. To be earned, never expected... and certainly never demanded.”

“Dictate number six... all males are to be anally plugged. And all women have the right to inspect to ensure appropriate tightness.”

There comes raucous laughter. I note the observing males cower in horror.

“I want the boys and men of the island to constantly feel a woman’s governance. Anal plugs will be made available. I suggest women make the insertion to assure the initial proper tightness. Keep in mind... if it comfortably fits... it’s not large enough.”

Master pauses, gesturing to the pile of iron on the platform.

“Dictate number seven... it shall be the right of every mother, sister and wife to shackle the male.”

Master bends and reaches to pick up and hold high some links of wrought iron, thick open circles seeming to beckon a male limb.

“More will be provided if necessary. I think you will all find that the mental side of subservience comes easier with physical restraint and constant reminders of control. I have also ordered humblers. If you have not placed a male into one of the cleverly simple devices I suggest every woman learn to use it... and often.”

As Master speaks, the fire of the ginger root renews, in being held stationary the juices more readily absorbed. The effect is amazing. Despite the burning, my erection turns to stone. I feel the tip, purple I am sure, further rise to abrade my lower belly. An island woman notes, her eyes wandering as Master turns to post her latest dictates. She leans and whispers to a boy, naked of course. He shakes his head. Then she slaps his buttocks and he reluctantly steps forth to kneel in front of me.

Yoked and bound, harnessed and bridled, I can do little to resist as small hands reach up to cup well displayed testicles, then tenderly knead. He looks with concern to the woman... mother? Aunt? Older sister? She nods, her look stern. Then she offers a flat hand, that which spanked. A gesture of warning.

With that I tension the reins to look downward, my lower peripheral vision seeing the neck crane, the face point upwards, the tongue extend. The boy licks, my hairless scrotum coated with sweat. It feels good. It feels repulsive. Though the tongue falters, the bisexuality forced, the boy obediently offers his tendance. How many others has he been made to lick? 
 
Yet he knows to avoid the penis, the hyper sensitive underside of the upturned tip where ultimate male pleasure leads to climax. To bring me to climax without an express command can be dire.

That is not permitted, not without feminine direction and approval.

Master steps from the low stage and approaches her steed. She looks on approvingly as the boy teasingly licks, my hard on not to waver... yet ejaculation never to be attained.

“He’s a good cock tease,” Master notes.

The boy’s governess proudly steps forth, joining Master in admiring the boy’s laving tongue.

“I exercise and stretch his tongue daily. When he licks well I condition him, associating the licking of the male genitals with pleasure by feathering him to have him show me a nice erection... but that is all of course,” the woman gleefully offers.

Master nods adding, “boys with long, strong tongues make good servants. It will keep him out of the fields and away from the whip.”

“Enough lad. Master must depart,” mother, sister, cousin directs.

I am both disappointed and heartened when the tongue retracts and the boy stands. I note the boyhood sized penis has firmed. As suggested he has been psychologically trained, bisexually adapted to serve all with tongue and lips... and to enjoy. Mentally I am sure he senses his governess’s feather and I envision the many hours of forced tongue exercise.

“Can he deep throat? Perhaps when ready he will fellate for us in the town square,” Master suggests, referencing the weekly displays of feminine power.

“I am sure, as I train him most diligently, he will relish both the humiliation and the subjugation of offering another male the ultimate... while he remains denied of course.”

Master nods, “it is best. Male pride can be such a distraction to complete servitude.”

I am chagrined when Master steps to my front and I feel her fingers at my penis tip. No, not here... my mind panicking... not in the town square before so many!

“I am sure Brandi watered you well. And I don’t want to have to stop on the way home,”

The urethral agitator is pressed and slipped out. I am indeed full, my bladder brimming with the insistent offerings of Brandi. But here! Before dozens of onlookers!

Master graciously places her left hand over my eyes. She leans. I feel a brisance of joy, sensing her touch, the warmth of her breath. She whispers, her nearness bringing goose bumps.

“Be a good boy for me. I spared your balls so you could show off for me.”

She has indeed. And with the Viagra, the ginger and the warm wet tongue bath, I am in fact pleasing.

Urinating while erect is possible, but the required concentration is intense. Usually I perform for her in some distant location, secluded, the dusty soil of the African climate seeming to welcome rare moisture. Just me and Master, intimate moments of bringing her the joy of mastering the male.

But the town square?

A free hand lowers to my chest. She toys, diddling right nipple then left. She shushes into my ear. She is divine... divine in her touch... her words... her care. I am in want of nothing... fed... exercised... bathed. And I have my testicles. She condescends, graciously letting me remain intact. I do so much want to please...

Master senses my pressing, contracting muscles, straining. I sense her step aside just as I am able to muster a flow. I feel the sting of urine pass through a slightly irritated urethra. I hear laughter. I know a strong flow arches upwards then splatters to the compacted soil of the square. Then Master removes her hand from my eyes. More of her authority, forcing me to perform for her as I must look into the many faces of island women... some adoring her control... some mocking my humiliation... some appreciating my diamond studded rock hard manhood. So virile... so much under feminine control.

I finish. Master leans from the side. Another brisance as she whispers in my left ear and reaches to knead my right, stimulating the curious erogenous zones.

“Good boy. A nice show for me. The girls are all so envious,” offering a light knowing laugh.

She mounts, the prongs stressing my waist belt. Though it is not needed, my obedience and response to the reins without waver, she crops my buttocks and tugs firmly. My feet instantly respond. I lean. My leg muscles contract. I pull. As the chariot accelerates I feel an inner warmth... a degree of pride.

A frightfully simple existence... but it is all I have... along with my balls.