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.