Saturday, September 29, 2012

'Madam, Me and It' - Part IX - Its Story

Its Story... as related by Madam

It had a name. But it is no longer relevant or needed. Having a name inures a sense of identity. Such is no longer permitted. It is simply It.

He was a client... as kinky and quirky as they come. A successful executive he could afford to frequent my lair regularly... or so it seemed. And it also seemed he was intent on having me utilize every item of my trade, every implement of pain, restraint, humiliation.

I sometimes teased, buying something new just to see if he noticed it idly hanging amongst the myriad of whips, shackles, crops and canes. And sure enough he would, insisting on having me use it, abuse his body, torment his mind in one manner or another. 

The sessions progressed in terms of severity, seeming to offer challenge. Would there be anything I refused to do... anything too extreme?

Well of course there was not. I never refuse anyone’s quest for suffering... mentally... physically... emotionally. Why should I? One must eat... though in addition to the pecuniary satisfaction my joy is genuine.

So my eager client begins to get into the CBT thing... cock and ball torture/torment. I suppose he assumes I would moderate my efforts in some manner, actually back off at a given point in a session. And of course I never did. After all, such are not my tidbits at risk... and I was not the person requesting the extreme ignominy of having a woman take complete charge of a male’s otherwise intimate parts.

So one night, I hung him by his balls. If you think this is purely male fantasy, such is a misconception. The physical torment is extreme, real... and very enjoyable... for a woman of my ilk. Why would I in any manner moderate the request?

Back down? Not this woman.

So the scene is this...

Stripped naked, pubes shorn as I insist, my client lies supine, tall wooden blocks at the feet and hands. I loop his scrotum with a frighteningly thin strand of wire which in turn is secured to a rope hanging from a geared pulley at the ceiling. He begins to harden just watching me do the hook up. And by the time I begin to pull and tighten, he’s stiff as a rail.

So up we go, higher and higher, the balls winched toward the ceiling, the legs and arms straining to lift in response, the back arching. There are grunts and groans but no pleas for mercy. And then the wooden blocks come into play as I slowly pull and pull. He scrambles to raise himself, balancing first on hands and feet. But as I continue to lift, the pulley well geared, the tension increasing with relative ease, there comes the need to go to toes and finger tips... and oh so carefully balance on the blocks.

A delicious scene. The male will struggle divinely to maintain a most subservient pose and stay on the blocks.

It is then that the begging begins... reality setting in as the thin wire brings both pain and the threat of emasculation.

So I pause. After all it is I in control... and not my gonads at risk.

Crimson... purple... deeper purple... the changing hue amuses... beseeching words flow like water. To me, a song.

Then the phone rings. I tie off the hoisting rope, give my plaything a comforting pat on the head, and step to the living room to answer.

A call from a long lost friend, a conversation of nostalgia, tales of old times are bantered back and forth. I suppose it was a lengthy conversation... a little too lengthy.

When I return, my dangling client no longer dangles... but outright hangs. Did the supporting wooden blocks topple? Did my client make a desperate move to grasp the rope, to futilely attempt to hoist himself and relieve the tension?

I’ll never know. He’s passed out and the hanging balls are the most amazingly dark color with the thin wire loop pulled tight to the point that those nuts are about to part with the owner.

Tsk, tsk. I heard him yelp while on the phone. But they all yelp at some point. It’s part of the scene. No yelps... I must not be properly performing my role.

So, being a woman of some mercy, I untie the rope and let him down. But subsequently, days later, my client finds the damage is done. Castrated, those little nuggets never again to function and pollute the demented male psyche with testosterone.  

He later calls, having undergone a medical evaluation. No anger, just remorse. And I have remorse as well. Good steady clients are most welcomed. The weekly revenue shall be missed.

I wish him well, adding sardonically that neutered men are known to make good servants. Then I hang up. Not much more I can do. I need my day to be filled with those with working balls. Nothing to be earned from those without. No testicles... no drive... neither vanilla nor deviant.

Saturday, September 22, 2012

'Madam, Me and It' - Part VIII - Trembling


I approach the Victorian abode of Madam. Whereas I formerly quivered in anticipation of erotic thrill, I now tremble in apprehension. This is where my testicles last functioned.

The neighborhood is seedy but rapidly gentrifying, restoring creaky old homes now fashionable among the young up and coming. So it is ideal for Madam’s profession, the neighborhood watch more concerned with suppressing the presence of fading drug dealers than the commerce of a woman who caters to ‘gentlemen with refined erotic tastes’.    

I ring the doorbell and step into the foyer. There comes the clatter of locks and chains and a smiling Madam gestures as always. I step into the dining room turned dungeon, forgoing the usual disgorgement of cash.

Madam enjoys watching me strip... at least her authoritative pose and wry smile suggest so. I then lie supine and the strapping begins, the jerking table and I become one. My trembling becomes quite noticeable, the stabbing pain of the bite overriding all memory of the intense orgasm, the parting glimpse of It also coming to mind. 

Satisfied that I am most rigorously secured, the woman’s desire for tight bondage unwavering, I must watch as she again rummages through my clothing, emptying my pockets of keys, bills, change, wallet.

“Your credit card no longer works,” Madam smirks in holding up the replacement, arriving by overnight delivery.

She also notes the bottle of pills, the doctor’s prescription of hormones. She smiles then momentarily steps from the room, the new credit card information to be duly recorded.

Then she returns, brusquely gathering all taken from my pockets and piling such on the armoire.

“So... you have some questions, Mr. Grieves...What is It? Who is It? Why is It? And expressed with such frustration.”

She peers at my scrotum, the coloration remaining quite purple. The flesh appears as would a hand or foot enduring the constraint of a tourniquet. She smiles knowingly.

“I need to know,” my voice quavering in weakness.

“And so you shall. It is somewhat shy and it is not in my best interests to parade him about the neighborhood, as I am sure you will agree. So he’s mostly caged in the basement and on occasion assists with a scene. Overall he serves a need and what little attention he requires more amuses than obligates. Castrated men can make wonderful companions, Mr. Grieves. Docile... and with limited needs. And so enjoyable to torment. Did you like my tattoos?”

“I did not have an opportunity to fully appreciate,” a sheepish It exiting rapidly.

“We’ll take a look later.”   

So... the story of It...

Thursday, September 20, 2012

Amazon employees can read! (see comments for update)

Just received this note forwarded from the publisher of much of my stuff, Pink Flamingo...


We’re contacting you regarding the following book(s) that you submitted for sale in our Kindle Store:

Laura Davidson, Keeper of Men (ID: B004DNW4EK)

During our review process, we found that your book contains content that is in violation of our content guidelines. As a result, we will not be offering this book for sale.

Our content guidelines are published on the Kindle Direct Publishing website.

To learn more, please see:

Best regards,

Kindle Direct Publishing

So you Kindle users should be comforted that Amazon is protecting you from stuff you should not be reading.

And to think we fear government censorship...

Saturday, September 15, 2012

'Madam, Me and It' - Part VII - A Need for Counseling

A Need for Counseling

The heat of the bath meliorates the dull ache. I arise from the tub and towel myself. The soaking has not changed the discoloration of my scrotum for better or for worse. And I must wonder when will I know... will the circulation return to normal or not?

Hormones pills are taken. Though my testicles no longer function I notice no change... no physical change. But as the doctor suggested weeks ago, I am no longer a rampaging bull when it comes to drive. I have not made an appointment to see Madam and have little desire to do so... for climactic relief. But another need arises.

The doctor, in surmising that my condition has been self induced, suggested a need for counseling... almost concluding that such would result in total gender modification.

Well, I indeed feel a need, but such is for discussion. A need to know and understand.

Why did this happen?

So I move to the phone. A call to Madam. She has probably already charged a credit card for the visit I failed to arrange last week. At the very least I must put a stop to her financial shenanigans. I make a note to report my cards as lost and obtain new ones.
In searching for the cell phone, the final moments of the encounter which has changed my life rolls from my hippocampus.

After the intense ejaculation, It withdrew from the jerking table, righting at the waist in having been stooped over to suck on my balls. Quickly departing, I noted more tattoos covering a cherubic nakedness. The forms and shapes of the body art were indistinguishable. If there is a thought or message to be conveyed by Its tattoos, I do not know what it could be... other than that someone doodled on his flesh.   

Yes, just as with me, It was completely denuded. The lack of muscle structure suggested femininity... and without the athleticism of Madam. The breasts were limited and the doctor’s comments about puffy and sensitive nipples flashed into memory. The pubes area revealed little but a tiny penis flopped about... very tiny... with nothing noted below. When It turned and pranced to the kitchen, plump, uncolored soft and rounded buttocks yielded brands... a sizable letter ‘M’ prominently displayed, the flesh incarnadine from searing heat, upon the apex of each globe. And such jiggled saucily.

At that point Madam unbuckled a wrist strap and then silently strolled out, leaving me to release myself from my remaining bonds. There was no subsequent discussion and there has not been subsequent discussion since then.

Thus the need to talk. 

“Hello,” the accented cultured voice of Madam comes on line after the second ring.

“It’s Grieves.”

“I did not hear from you last week. More naughtiness.”

“I was at the doctors. A certain injury needed to be assessed.”

“Well I charged your card. If you’d like to visit, tomorrow or Friday, you’ve already funded my time.”

Just as I suspected. Madam is a woman of purpose, doing what she says and saying what she does.

“I’d like to stop by and just talk... to you and It.”

It does not talk. A little adjustment I thought appropriate. The ability to communicate can embolden. My pet has nothing about which to be bold.”

“What is It? Who is It? Why is It?” I blurt in exasperation.

Madam responds with her wicked chuckle.

“Yes, Mr. Grieves, perhaps you should stop by... and listen... not talk. But I will want you naked and in a subservient position. It is best that we communicate in such a manner. I am your superior.

“How did your doctor’s visit go? A positive assessment of your injury I hope.”

Her tone seems mocking... sarcastic. At least I interpret such as mocking and sarcastic. Yes, my proclivity inures such deviance.

“I... I... I’m taking some pills and awaiting further evaluation.”

“Yes, it was rather nasty of It. I wanted just a little nip. Such can add spice to a good orgasm. Its envy must have spurred an overreaction,” Madam chuckling again. 

“I’d like to drop by Friday,” finding the need to change the subject.

“If it’s just to talk, morning is best. It will still be caged. Say 10:00 a.m.”

I agree and hang up, somewhat perplexed. But why shouldn’t It be caged? It is Madam’s pet.

Saturday, September 8, 2012

'Madam, Me and It' - Part VI - The Transforming Encounter

The Transforming Encounter

My biweekly visit comes. I find myself quivering as I approach Madam’s house. Commanding, controlling, offering ecstatic release in a manner so gratifying to my penchant.

Every session is a little different. The unknown adds layer upon layer to the quirky thrill. In place of ennui the anticipation of delight builds with each encounter.

Will It be revealed to me on this visit?

Plus I ask myself... what if I am not thoroughly strapped down? Will I accede to the tendance, however sensuous, of Madam’s pet if not tethered?

I ring the doorbell and step into the foyer. Madam does not like her ‘clients’ lingering on the porch. There I wait, listening for the clatter of locks and chains. Within moments the inner door opens. Madam smiles and wriggles her finger, a wordless command. I know to saunter within, move to what was once the dining room of the capacious old house and place Madam’s largesse on the armoire.

Madam stands arms akimbo as I strip. The commanding pose, obedient nakedness before she regally attired, brings more quivers. I know to lie on the table... the jerking table... as many firm but comfortable straps await.  

Wrists then ankles, thighs, and forearms. Finally a broad strap is drawn over my abdomen... more symbolic than augmenting any element of restraint. Still, it is pulled and buckled to tautness.

It has missed you, Mr. Grieves,” playfully tapping my nose as every strap is double checked and tightened just a little more.   

Madam turns to a wall decorated with the apparatus of her trade... whips, canes, crops, cuffs, gags, insertions for orifices and openings of every size. She retrieves my hood.

“We will forgo the parachute for now. You know how much my pet savors your balls.”

She steps to the table smiling. It is a pleasant matronly smile, but it is spurred I am sure by the vision of my nakedness... my helplessness... my vulnerability. The hood is slipped over my head. I am blinded. I hear the padded footsteps of which I am more cognizant. It enters from somewhere. I must assume the kitchen where warm water and shaving paraphernalia have been assembled for my visit.

I am lathered. I again note the caring softness of the fingers and hands. How can It possibly be male? Perhaps my concerns are misplaced. Yet there is indeed the apparent adoration of my testicles as the fingers so gently pry and prod the folds of my scrotum, exposing to best accommodate the razor’s stroke.

I think of the many massages I have experienced, the young Asian women so well trained to feign awe as the male organs triumph in explosive climax. Yes, perhaps Its adoration is ingrained by some Asian culture, that It is a geisha of some sort.

But if so, why the concealment? Why am I to feel, smell and hear and not to see?    

A warm wet towel laves, cleansing my pubes of shaving lotion. I can feel myself... semi erect. I know Madam is proximate and sure enough a hand smooths the cloth hood at my right cheek.

“You present well, Mr. Grieves. Plump balls, long pink hairless sac. And you’re becoming so nicely erect. Why not ask for fellatio this afternoon? Why deny yourself the ultimate male pleasure? You should know at your age that the joy of oral prowess can certainly exceed that offered by vaginal penetration. The mouth and lips can be precise... pleasure a man with perfect pressure... and be applied with focus. It can offer that.”


I cannot bring myself to request it. The homophobia prevails.

With that, I assume some hand signal is given. I feel Its hot breath waft over freshly shorn scrotal flesh. Then I thrill in feeling the warm wetness. Right gonad then left, on this occasion Its mouth engulfs both organs, my sac slowly consumed, enshrouded in warm slippery wetness. I feel a nose prod the base of my penis. Then a lubricated hand begins the sensuous stroking of my penis as the tongue swirls and swirls.

Such ecstasy!  

Yet there comes another element of thrill. As one hand strokes, the lips press, the tongue swishes, one finger of the free hand slips beneath and knocks on my portal. Also lubricated, it presses inward, my sphincter first puckering in surprise then yielding.

Wickedly the stroking hand stops. My penis finds neglect. I hear Madam snicker. She again toys with my ears through the hood.

It knows the male anatomy, Mr. Grieves. Some prostatic massage is good for a man. I think It has rather spoiled you. You’re oozing fluid in expectation, yet you fail to request the ultimate attention. Perhaps It will just slowly milk you instead.”

The pleasure turns to torment. Then a single finger of the stroking hand presses downward on the penis tip, holding my manhood in a most awkward angle.

I cannot come. And It is so much aware. Madam’s pet is the master of my genitals.

“Rather tormenting, it is not Mr. Grieves? You so much need relief, yet you deny yourself... and you deny It. My pet so much savors male essence, the feel of exploding sperm.”

Torment indeed. I need to come. Such depravity!

“Please,” I beg feeling a second finger enter me.

Its penetrating digits begin to adroitly enhance my need.

“Well perhaps something a little different this afternoon,” Madam coyly suggests. “I’ll not grant you consummate pleasure. Your refusal of fellatio makes you undeserving. I suggest a little pain with any relief.”

With that I feel Its mouth tighten. For the first time I feel teeth!


Madam snickers. The stroking hand resumes its effort. The penetrating fingers expertly massage within my rectum, the jaw tightens... slow... slower. It bites! The combination of pleasure and pain mounts.... my need mounts. So evil!

And then Madam slips off the hood!

I blink. My eyes rapidly acclimate. Madam cradles, raising my head. I look downward. I do not recognize my own organ... huge... so bulbous... so purple... gleaming with fluid. And of course I look at It! A bald head, colored... gaudy reds, blues, yellows. Clumsily tattooed is every inch of cranial flesh. Glimmering earrings suggest femininity. A sizable meaty hand does not.

Yet assessing gender, a months long quest, is not foremost. For the jaws clamp, teeth clench, at the base of my scrotum, where the soft loose flesh greets the tightness of my raging erection.

“No! Please! Stop!”

The fingers within rummage. The hand strokes. The tongue swirls, yet the teeth tighten. And Madam laughs. 

“I think you’d like to come for me,” Madam firmly suggests.

And I do. With the intensity of pleasure and pain never before experienced, a glob of sperm arcs upwards and splashes on my chin.

“Very impressive Mr. Grieves. Yes, the subservient male so very much basks in such humiliation. Coming at a woman’s behest, reveling in being forcefully jerked off. You see, the homophobia is nothing more than a facade, Mr. Grieves. But with my pet, even the facade is misplaced. It has long since ceased passing himself as a male.”

I am drained. The hand stops. The penetrating fingers withdraw. In place of the normal glow of ecstatic release, the agony of Its clenching jaw begins to overwhelm. Finally Madam gestures. The mouth relinquishes, It slips back, and my testicles and scrotum return to view.

“More envy than adoration on this occasion, Mr. Grieves. I trust It has not gotten carried away.”

Per the doctor’s examination... It did.

Saturday, September 1, 2012

'Madam, Me and It' - Part V - More


The next session and the one thereafter, Madam played her games. I was not to see It. Never to hear her pet say a word. Strapped down, hooded, Madam would taunt, her hands smoothing about my covered face and head as It shaved me then brought manual pleasure, demonstrating convincingly that the manipulation of my penis was certainly not by the hand of a dominating woman. It was not Madam condescending to bring such ecstasy.

Frustrating, but I was becoming ingrained, being indoctrinated.

Nearing explosion, Madam would inquire... ‘some tongue work?’... and I would protest. I was forced to accept manual pleasure. I could not bring myself to request oral satiation from the unknown.

With my refusal... two more trips home, my testicles aching with incompleteness and need.

Then came a third visit with It’s attendance made evident.

“I am going to have It suck your balls today. You’re much longer now. I think we have added inches to your sac. It finds the long mass of flesh to be attractive. My pet both envies and adores.” 

I am of course strapped down as Madam makes the proclamation. No choice to be offered. No offer of fellatio. I am shaven and the parachute is foregone. It is to adore... to offer oral envy.

Warm, wet, soft... my scrotum was engulfed. New found pleasure. Another apex attained. It’s lips enshrouded, the tongue swirled and swirled, and there of course came the manual manipulation of my stiffness. All this while Madam spoke her words, on this occasion kneading my ears through the cloth of the hood.

Madam was kind on this visit. Yes, despite the dread, having no idea of the who and what of It, I came like a volcano.... gratefully... sheepishly... brought to gratification.

I had strange visions, perhaps It is neither male nor female. Perhaps some kind of animal... marvelously prehensile... but an animal none-the-less. One well trained and orally gifted. How strange. How delusional.

Between sessions I was given to much thought and analysis. Strapped down, hooded, unable to move, protestations futile, could an encounter with the likes of It really be considered homosexual in nature if It turned out to be male?

It was only when offered the choice that my repugnance flared. I did not object to the hand jobs. When It sucked my scrotum, tongue endlessly swishing my balls, I reveled in the joy. It was only when Madam inquired, offered a choice, that my homophobia erupted.

I was not to accept a blow job from a guy. Yet I could be forced... and without an utterance in remonstration.

Deep within, was I hoping Madam would simply give the command... ‘fellate him, It!’. Would my psyche find such a directive acceptable?

But then I am assuming It is male. Correct?