'Madam, Me and It' - Part IV - Follow up Sessions

Follow up Sessions

So, there is the threat, should I be absent, to charge one of my credit cards. Do I use that to justify to myself the forthcoming visits? More likely my regular attendance is due to the fact that being with Madam is heavenly for a man of my penchants. A controlling dominant shaving and massage followed by an exquisite climax...

Four visits... five... Madam reveled in the inexorable stretching of my scrotum, commenting with each session how all women should require body modification of the male.

“Perhaps I will brand you” she suggested on one visit.

Such taunts came only after the straps were well tightened. She knew the thought added quite the thrill. Had she chosen to mark me, I was helpless to resist. I would be so marked, bearing forever the symbol of her authority. With my erection serving as a barometer, other scenes were verbally sketched. Madam’s role play was accomplished, her fingers deftly etching on my flesh where she considered branding, piercing or in some manner altering to symbolize her supreme governance.

She was masterful. Each session was a little different, inducing a little more fear which she knew led to a little more thrill.

But then came more than an incremental enhancement to the psychological/emotional exchange. While feeling the winch slowly tighten, the stretching never to end, I felt hands about my hood, lifting to cradle my head. This shocked. And the apoplexy was well in excess of my reaction to the verbal sadomasochistic innuendos.

If Madam’s hands were at my head, whose hands turned the winch? 

“Who is it?” I blurted in disconcertion. “What’s going on?”  

Madam laughed. A wicked laugh. Then she lowered her face. I felt her breath through the cloth of the hood.

“Do not be afraid of It. My pet is obedient.”

“Who is it?”

“It has no name.”

The winch stopped. Despite my apprehension, the sense of comfort, being under total control, returned. Then, while Madam’s hands continued to cradle my head, her voice remaining proximate, the lubricated hand once again began to work a shaft firmer then ever. The unknown, the intrigue, of being restrained and exposed to someone unseen... ‘It’... brought forth another level of depraved delight.

“Did you really think that a woman of dominance would stoop so low as to masturbate you?” Madam inquired with a snicker. “It takes great glee in forcing you to ejaculate.”

The hand, gifted I had come to conclude, began it’s magic. By now my reaction was ingrained. The horror of not knowing who or what masturbated me brought no physical retrenchment. Stiff as ever, if not stiffer, I soaked up the slow controlling hand job. Madam, very much aware of my emotional dread, became enthused, my tumescent physical reaction defying my concern.    

“You have not before been fellated by It. The tongue and lips are equally talented. You’ll be sucked for hours and not climax. Did you know such can become a form of torture? Held at the edge for hours without relief? It knows exactly where the male organs are in the ejaculatory process and can withhold and withhold and withhold.”

I began to struggle against bonds I knew to be most ineluctable. Fruitless, I knew, but what other response was available?

“Say the word and It will accommodate. A blow job without end... nirvana for the sexually subservient male.”

Damn this woman. Who is It? More important... what is It? And the gender?.. Not to be divulged.

I remained silent. What should I do? There will be repugnance if It is a guy. The homophobia will sicken. But if female... and the tongue and lips are indeed as adroit as the hand? Nirvana indeed.

“Just a little tongue work, my pet,” Madam making the decision for me.

“No!”

“Yes. And remember only obedient boys ejaculate for me. Very naughty of you.”

The hand slowly smoothed downward to hold my penis shaft at the base. Then as Madam commanded, the tongue work began. The tip fluttered about most teasingly just at the underside of the head. Just where some 80% of male sexual pleasure is experienced. Exquisite... delightful... but frustratingly evanescent, for it quickly withdrew, the hand sensing a pending eruption which apparently was not to be permitted.

“That’s enough, It, Mr. Grieves has been naughty.”

And just as expected with a woman of authority... that indeed was enough. The tongue withdrew. The hand released my shaft. I just laid there feeling my incredibly engorged penis throbbing.

“Perhaps with your next visit...” 

I was sent home in great need.

Reached an interesting milestone on Smashwords

I have mentioned the propensity for visitors on Smashwords to relish free stuff. Well today ‘To Serve Intact’ was downloaded for the 700th time!

I will not however be celebrating this achievement with a dram of rare Scotch. To date, only 14 people have chosen to download the ending (cost $4).

That is a 2% response rate.

So what to conclude? Visitors to Smashwords are impecunious? My stuff is feasted upon when free, found to be inedible when cash is required?

It amazes me that so many can read some 24,000 words (presumably they finish the main body of the story, after all it’s free) and not want to know the ending.

Yes, a curious bunch on Smashwords. I posted ‘The Power Series’ and it has been downloaded more often (735 times at this writing). One woman took the time to pan the story as ‘Not BDSM but sadism and Pathology’ (begs the question as to what she thinks the ‘S’ is in BDSM). 

I have fun thinking about her internet surfing habits, searching the net for free stories she won’t like and can find repulsive. ‘I am shocked to find there is gambling in Rick’s Café.’or ‘Please stop me before I read more!’

Anyway, hopefully some of these readers purchase something at some point, perhaps even visit this blog. I give away stuff first to entertain, second to build a brand name and make people comfortable that if and when they choose to buy something, it will be quality smut.

But then ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ is now a best seller... so what does that say about quality and the potential pool of D/s readers?   

'Madam, Me and It' - Part III - The First Session

The First Session

“Good boys take off all their clothes and just lie on my table. There I will inspect you and play then assure you’re jerked off... if you’re obedient.”

I think it’s the European accent that offers a certain dynamic to her authoritative tone. One would guess French... perhaps high German. Madam claims she is Prussian. Blonde, tall, well muscled yet feminine, she is athletically built. Such physicality abets her deportment... a woman in charge.

My heart leapt with her initial words, The envisioned scene enthralled... submission with a happy ending. So I disrobed. No problem, that is expected. But not expected was to be immediately strapped down... and most tightly... and then hooded. Most professionals first inquire, assuring that there is no claustrophobia... that strict bondage is a turn on.

I kind of liked the idea that she did not ask. She took control... and in ceding control one does not ask permission.         

So there I laid supine, naked, wrists strapped, then ankles, thighs, forearms and waist.  

“Thoroughness... always thoroughness,” she whimsically explained, leisurely tightening each and every restraint.

I felt strangely comfortable. So many previous professional visits... so many dollars spent... now finally something succinct but overpowering... refreshingly overpowering.  

Comfortable that is until I heard her going through my things... gathering stuff from my pockets.

“I find it is best that I know who you really are... where you live... everything I can learn about you. You will be more obedient.”

Was this the beginning of the extortion/blackmail episode I formerly feared?

She stepped from the room. I later was to find she photocopied everything that truly identified me... real name included of course.

‘Should I cancel my credit cards?’ I wondered.

A legitimate concern, for yes she copied that information as well. Yet her actions added a degree of excitement, that masochistic thrill in ceding another layer of control... the ability to expose me.

Madam returned. I was soon calmed. With the hood forcing me into darkness my remaining senses became heightened... smelling more... feeling more... and yes hearing more... padded footsteps.

Hands began to inspect me as promised... soft... knowing... brazen. This while she spoke, governing words, in charge, describing what she intended to do to me. Promising I would be soon spouting like a whale as I felt myself harden in response to her touch... and her words... soft but commanding. Then I felt warm wet softness where a male likes to most feel. There came the scent of lotion and the gentle scrape of a razor. I was shaven, my entire pubes.

Oddly, with the shaving and inspection came a defacto massage, never before experienced in a D/s session... with a pro. I was being pampered... but not as a person of privilege or importance... but as a pet animal. I felt something attached to my scrotum, a parachute. Then I felt tension as Madam explained she liked having a man stretched. For a male of my ilk the sensation added more strange comfort as I heard something wind, obviously a winch of some kind. The tension slowly increased and my manhood reacted with further firmness. Madam clucked her tongue knowingly.

“I’ll want you back. Perhaps every two weeks. I like to have a man’s balls dangling at the knees. It takes time but you will enjoy the process.”

Such depravity! Yet the exchange of thoughts worked. When I felt a lubricated hand finally begin to work my penis, I realized how hard I had become. And as the tension on the scrotal parachute slowly increased, the greased hand worked... slowly as well... attentively. The woman knows the male anatomy, I told myself, having previously experienced many ‘endings’ both happy and barely adequate.

At her command I exploded, feeling the warm stickiness of thick male essence splash onto my chest, then ooze onto my lower abdomen as the hand expertly milked me dry.

“Yes, you are a good boy. You perform well for a woman. You will come back. More stretching. If not, I will charge your credit cards. So you may as well attend.”

An aloof commanding woman. For what more could I ask?

'To Serve Intact' in print (with the conclusion)

By special arrangement, a print edition of 'To Serve Intact' is available from Quality SM (www.qualitysm.com). This includes the conclusion.

Though I have named the chapters of this latest story, 'Madam, Me and It' I will number as well to avoid confusion.

Enjoy

CB

'Madam, Me and It' - Part II - Reflections on the Beginning

Reflections on the Beginning

There is a constant dull ache... down there. The doctor forewarned and I find that hot baths are palliative. So I do my self inspection and it appears the purple shade of my scrotal sac has not deepened... but my observation may be tainted by wishful thinking. If there is permanent vascular damage as with the nerves and vas deferens, the doctor has ‘assuaged’ me by assuring that her castrating knife will be quick and painless. A woman’s manner of offering comfort... ‘it will not hurt, merely affect the remainder of your life’ I can’t help characterizing her words attempting to sooth.

Next I step into the tub. Normally I avoid hot baths as extended intense heat is bad for the sperm count. Such irony. There is now no count to impede.

As I lie back and soak, my thoughts percolate.

I suppose it is inevitable that my kink, my warped sexual drive, should bring problems. But at age thirty five being neutered has not been one of the problems envisioned. Being ‘outed’ to vanilla friends and business acquaintances has been of most concern... telltale welts and lash marks inadvertently displayed in the locker room. Blackmail or extortion another possibility. But in now being self employed, disclosure would not result in significant impairment to my paycheck, just the possibility of some strained client relationships... which can be ameliorated. So I have put aside that as a concern. Whatever the ammunition... the blackmailing cannon balls... fire away as far as I am concerned. It is the privilege of being single.

But now there is this situation. With apprehension I can manage to achieve an erection. I have strained to ‘test’ things out, masturbation being low on my agenda of late. And I can only imagine what I will spew assuming I can get everything working. The doctor and her ‘rampaging bull’ comment remain in my thoughts. Perhaps it is not the subconscious that brings diminished desire but conscious thoughts of ‘why bother?’. Perhaps deep within one succumbs and becomes comfortable being a steer.

So many thoughts and finally there comes to mind Madam and the beginning of the end of my masculinity... normal masculinity.  

To blow off steam, pent up horniness, I have utilized three outlets... mundane masturbation... an occasional massage, with the so termed ‘happy ending’, of course... and professional dominatrixes. I have always desired to befriend a girl who understands the dynamics of sexual power exchange but despite all the internet sites, the ‘sturm and drang’ of personal ads and other social media, it’s not that easy. Lots of different genres, facets and subsets in the world of D/s. So I have found it more facile to visit a pro, plunk down cash, outline a general scenario and go with it.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it’s merely acceptable time spent... and then there is time spent with ‘Madam’.

Yes, with me there is this thing for aloof commanding women... and Madam is just that. Whereas in the run of the mill professional D/s scene touching is eschewed, I quickly learned Madam enjoys ‘close work’... hands and fingers. And her touch had come to thrill...

New Story 'Madam, Me and It' - Part I - Prologue

Ok. Thank you all for the comments. A story has come to mind. Female dominant, male sub. I trust  all will enjoy. Look Saturdays for the continuation.

I like the ideas offered for a forthcoming story but for me to write the story first has to excite me. So I have limitations. Hope this does not disappoint. 

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Madam, Me and It

Copyright 2012

by Chris Bellows

Prologue

“I assure you, they are not functioning, Mr. Grieves. The discoloration of the scrotum suggests limited circulation... quite limited. Your non existent sperm count confirms it.”

I am stunned, the explanation offered with such smooth nonchalance. I suppose one should generally expect such a professional tone and demeanor in a doctor’s office, but not when the words so dismally describe the state of one’s testicles.

The doctor continues. Do I detect that she represses a smile? I convince myself that it is my proclivity, my insatiable desire for aloof commanding women, that imparts a degree of Schadenfreude. Real or imagined?

“Without performing exploratory surgery, I would surmise that the nerves and vas deferens have some how been crushed... squeezed in some inordinate manner. Not my business to do pathology... forensics if you’ll excuse the term... but have you been in contact with any farm apparatus? It would almost appear that in some manner a tool for emasculating livestock has been applied... at the base of the scrotum... just under the penis.”

She does not use the term Burdizzo, but I know it is to that which she refers. It’s my pitiful lifestyle of kink... reading too many Chris Bellows fantasy stories... which brings such awareness. Appearing to be an exotic set of pliers, the device grips the scrotal sac as described and in a brief instant of pain closes to neuter the likes of goats, sheep and cattle by crushing the nourishing arteries, the life sustaining nerves and most importantly the sperm ducts... the vas deferens.

“Yet it appears some degree of circulation continues. But for how long I cannot say. The damaged vessels may heal. We could open you up and hope to abet that process, but to what end? The testicles have been permanently rendered useless and in being invasive there could be further harm.”

I nod, wondering if my facade of calmness adequately cloaks the rage and disbelief.

“I advise that you examine yourself closely in the shower each morning. If anything changes... deeper discoloration for instance... call us immediately. Gangrene, Mr. Grieves... not a trivial matter. If such manifests you’ll require an orchidectomy... quick and simple... but I assure you quite necessary.”

My balls are doomed... not ever again to function... whether dangling between my thighs or within the imagined trophy case of the calloused doctor.

Damn this penchant of mine! Why do I fantasize that she collects male organs?  

“Mr. Grieves, it may not be appropriate, but I recommend you seek other help regarding this matter. Most of the male testosterone is produced by the testicles. Therefore it is not just the production of sperm which has been curtailed. You’ll need hormone treatment, which I can prescribe. But there is no point of beginning that until... well until certain issues are resolved.”

“Issues?” managing to muddle through my shock and finally utter a word.

“If your condition has been self induced... and I am not coming to any conclusions... then beginning hormone treatment would be contrary... counter to what something within is dictating.”

Such is not the case, but the woman is suggesting I attempted to castrate myself.

“There are clinics where, after thorough psychological diagnosis, your inner conflict can be surgically resolved.”

Gender reassignment surgery! She really must think I am indeed desperately conflicted.

“Do you really think the hormone therapy is necessary?”

Now she smiles... not my imagination.

“Well, we can wait. But without it within days you’ll find yourself quite torpid. There will be weight gain... and other undesirable effects.”

Remaining silent, I do not want to know the other undesirable effects. But the doctor now seems to derive a certain glee and continues.

“Yes, your penis will begin to shrink, the nipples will become puffy and quite sensitive. There will be intense mood swings.”

There comes an unprofessional snicker.

“Think of those emotional times going through puberty, Mr. Grieves. Only now the slow changes will not result in the acceptable... at least I don’t think such will be acceptable.”

She pauses, letting the horrifying words rattle about my shell shocked limbic system. The latter words suggest she is convinced the damage is self induced.

“With the hormonal imbalance, your emotional and psychological needs will transform. Unless you have motive... are prepared for radical change, I suggest some daily pills. It will forestall most of the effects of emasculation.”

“Most?”

“Sex. I cannot predict your level of drive. There will be no production of sperm, that’s over. And with its curtailment sometimes the subconscious just allows desire to dissipate. Bulls rampage, steers just sort of amble about, if you catch my drift.”

I am not appreciative of the analogy, comparing my status to that of cattle being fattened for slaughter.

“I’ll take the pills.”