'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.”

“No!”

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!

“No!”

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.