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

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...