'To Serve Intact' XIV

Master crops, desiring a steady but challenging pace. There is no leisure under her tutelage. She works me and I have come to enjoy the sense of performing... of pleasing.

We leave the town square. A tug on the right rein and I instantly turn, not a thought to be conjured. The path leads not to her palatial home but to the water, the island’s dock.    

It is down hill, the speed sufficient. I put aside thoughts of the drudgery of the return uphill trip. I put all thoughts aside. I do... not think.

Another tug, a left turn. Into view comes the lengthy strip of pilings and planks jutting into the Atlantic Ocean. There is a boat, in the distance the coast of the main land. Standing on the dock, regal, tall yet with notable breasts, a woman. Blonde, her white somewhat tanned skin contrasts sharply with the sun blackened flesh of the local naked males, scurrying about to unload the craft. She waves, apparently responding to Master’s gesture of greeting. I feel the sting of the crop and somewhat lurch not expecting the unneeded encouragement.

The firm stroke is merely for show, Master demonstrating her unbridled authority. The woman smiles broadly, not a hint of demureness in being surrounded by exposed subservient males... and approached by an equally exposed human steed.  

The woman seems familiar but I have not opportunity to gaze. Master turns me to face away then sharply tugs to bring the brisk run to an end. She dismounts.

The ginger juice has diluted, yet the Viagra causes my penis to remain firm. Master notes, standing proximate with a welcomed plastic bottle, thrusting the attached straw past my bit and squeezing to hydrate.

“Good boy. Keep yourself up for me. You have a special visitor and I think she will very much enjoy your subjugation. And I know you so much like to humble yourself before women...”

Her left foot slips forward. Incredibly I feel the cloth of her covered thigh press against my upturned penis. It is rare that she so blatantly lets me frottage. When she feels my hips thrust forth, futilely contesting the total denial, she smiles then softly laughs.

“Yes keep yourself nice and firm for me.”   

I swallow. The bottle empties. Sadly her leg withdraws. Behind me I hear thuds and feel the prongs of the chariot stress my waist belt. The naked obedient natives are loading the chariot.

“You’ll need to work hard for me... returning to the house. I have a guest,” a finger playfully tapping my nose.

Uphill, a fully laden chariot, yes I will be worked hard. Then comes the voice... the blonde woman... and more familiarity... I know it.

“So you gave the Captain a reprieve,” the woman’s tone sardonic, suggesting Master’s mercy to be misplaced.

My mind focuses. She knows my rank... my former rank... in the special forces. We have met... we have had dealings... bad dealings. And here I stand naked, bridled, harnessed... my penis performing like a trained circus animal. I blush, my heart pounding. I have become accustomed to displaying myself to the women of the island... the gynecocracy. But not before... her!

I feel rage. Master seems to be aware, hooking her right finger through the bridle strap to the left, a symbolic gesture... demonstrating her governance... my subservience. She knows presciently of the intensity of my reaction, making sure I am steady and well under feminine control as the woman steps to my front. She smiles wickedly, arms akimbo in a most authoritative pose. She visually examines... I cannot deny her scrutiny.

Yes, regal, athletic, surprisingly well endowed... and I must stand before her totally exposed, my well muscled, well exercised, toned male form brought to total submission.

And the subjugation... with penis standing she seems to know I enjoy!

“The Emperor has been kind to you, Captain. Certainly kinder than I would have been.”

I cannot move. I cannot talk... I would so much like to physically avenge... and say... words of invective. But Master remains holding my bridle and the bit mandates silence.

“I like the diamonds, though they must aggravate... tsk, tsk,” her words mocking my bejeweled manhood.

“Have you had a male perform for you in harness before, Genevieve?” Master inquires, ignoring the sarcasm.

“In suspension. With males, I just prefer to whip. The only performance expected is to beg, shed tears and then faint.”

“But that’s so evanescent. Train a good steed and you can put him under the whip and crop for hours.”  

“Guess I will have to learn.”

I am watered more, the plastic straw thrust past my bit, my altered teeth not to inhibit the introduction of mass quantities of liquid. I gulp. Then I am shocked to see Master hand the woman her crop. I am appalled. I want to perform for Master. I want to perform mayhem on this ‘Genevieve’. The woman notes my look of disconcertion and smirks, slapping the business end of the crop into her left palm. It is a masculine gesture and it evidences her comfort with instruments of correction and encouragement.

Then begins polite conversation, questions about this ‘Genevieve’s’ journey as the women step from view behind me and I feel the prongs of the Chariot shift to further stress my waist belt.

“Can he handle us both?’ Genevieve inquires.

“He will have to,” Master’s reply coming as my foremost memory of ‘Genevieve’ rolls forth...