Miss Pletcher
More demented thrill... greeting a fully clothed woman while naked, erect and perched.
Miss Pletcher is amused yet clucks her tongue in the rebuke of a school mistress.
Meanwhile a truckling It falls to his knees, bends at the waist and begins licking Madam’s shoes.
“Leave us, It. Go to your cage.”
He arises and prances out, Miss Pletcher unfazed. Remembering to be obediently silent, needing that pill, I merely balance on the pedestal in ignominy.
“He stiffens nicely,” Miss Pletcher notes. “But the discoloration of the scrotum indeed suggests damage.”
“An unfortunate accident, as I said.”
“He’s blushing.”
I am indeed.
Miss Pletcher is large, tall with broad shoulders. Short black hair, strands of silver suggest mid forties. Her demeanor is stern, indeed an exacting school mistress and one envisions many knuckles rapped without compunction.
She moves to the wall where It assembled the cleansing paraphernalia. I hear the squeaks of rubber. Latex gloves are donned. She returns. My inspection begins.
Miss Pletcher palms my scrotum.
“I see you’ve done some of your signature work... not to the knees but the balls present nicely. Still stretching him?”
“No. There’s no point until his condition stabilizes. It could be that there will be nothing to stretch.”
Miss Pletcher nods and squeezes... firm... firmer. She smiles approvingly again nodding to Madam. My heart sinks. I feel so little. She teasingly bends my erection downward. I grimace, an angle not to be achieved without anguish. Her smile broadens with my reaction.
“Enjoy. This could be one of your last,” she ominously forewarns.
Then my flesh, every inch, is kneaded... palpated with discerning exactness. My nipples are afforded particular attention, my oiled flesh making it possible to squeeze and roll about each areola, comically popping the pink nubs from between thumb and forefinger.
There is a degree of pain but more... I am humiliated... a side of beef to be inspected and bid upon.
Seemingly satisfied, the huge woman kicks away the pedestal, leaving me to hang by my neck collar. She laughs at my reaction of panic... gagging... eyes bulging in fear... entrapped feet attempting to kick into the air. Then mercifully she embraces my nakedness and laughs, thrusting her hands under my arms to lift. In an impressive display of strength, she relieves the tension as a smiling Madam moves to the tied off rope and releases the knot.
Miss Pletcher lowers me, a child in mother’s arms. With feet on the floor I better gauge the woman’s size. Though five foot eight, Miss Pletcher towers over me. She is well over six foot tall, not lean... certainly not fat... and strong.
“I’ll want to spread him.”
“Of course,” Madam replies, expecting the request.
Miss Pletcher returns to the wall of medical implements. Madam bends and unclips my ankle cuffs. I can move! And do so most humbly as the leash is released from the ceiling hook and a firm hand guides me to the horizontal bar.
There Madam pulls then presses, tummy to the smooth bar of wood. Then she lowers the leash steps on it to take in the slack and I know to bend... low... lower... forehead almost to the floor.
My ankle cuffs are again secured, now to the supporting posts. I am well spread... as Miss Pletcher desires.
“He’s well lubricated?” Miss Pletcher inquires.
“I think you can depend on It in that regard,” Madam quips.
“And you say he has not been used anally.”
“Not by me. But as discussed, he’s well into kink. Lord only knows what levels of abuse he’s put himself through.”
“Into pain? Or is his masochism more cerebral?”
“Other than the scrotal stretching I have not induced pain.”
“That is good. Once they begin to enjoy it the exchange of power blurs.”
Fingers splay my cheeks. Something cold and metallic is introduced. Whereas I have indeed experimented with anal play... experimented with almost everything for that matter... I have long since cast such aside from my portfolio of activities.
It appears it will return... at least for this afternoon.
Madam continues standing to my front tensioning the leash. I stare at her shoes as whatever has been slipped within my anus slowly expands.
“A speculum, Mr. Grieves. Miss Pletcher is going to work you open... wide open.”
There is discomfort... yet I can only wish that is all, for hands I know to be most powerful are also unyielding. The device slowly expands and expands. Muscles contract in reaction, defying the need to relax. A moan turns to a bit of an outright cry of pain. I hear Madam laugh... a dour Miss Pletcher merely slows her efforts.
Mercy? Or a sadist’s desire to maximize the interval of agony?
“Yes, nice and tight here. This boy will fuck well... at least for a while. And most importantly, there is no enjoyment. Quite disappointing when they look forward to it. That’s when I toss them aside... find fresh meat.”
I cannot imagine how far open is my rectum. There is aching... there is the burning sensation of skin stretched too far. I try to remain silent, but it is impossible. The woman is splitting me into two.
“Yes the male affinity for prostate manipulation,” Miss Pletcher proclaims as her efforts finally stop. “Forced into chastity it becomes quite the source of sexual pleasure.”
Something enters me. It feels that I am open enough to accommodate a whole hand... perhaps a forearm? But instead it is a gloved finger. It teases, my portal a spacious tunnel, her digit grazing the walls of my colon in a demonstration of my helplessness.
A free hand grasps my penis. I am amazed to feel that it remains stiff through all the pain and discomfort. Miss Pletcher snickers.
“They all moan, groan and yelp... but they always get hard,” the words sardonic.
The digit begins to knead at the lower wall. The woman has found my prostate with aplomb... a bull’s eye.
“Move his face back toward his feet a little more. Have him look up and watch.”
Madam offers slack on the leash then presses my head with her shoe to so position. I look up to see the speculum plunging deeply, its tongs parted to bring disbelief that my opening can be made to yield in a such a manner.
“Let’s see what these glands give up. I don’t often milk a boy... I let my dildo do that.”
The prostate manipulation continues. She is expert and the strange pain pleasure distracts my thoughts. Then there comes a droplet... then a steady ooze... and holding my erect penis at the base, Miss Pletcher directs the flow... to my face.
Prostatic fluid splashes onto my chin. The goo is clear and viscous... devoid of sperm and confirming the doctor’s diagnosis of days ago.
“Yes this one’s nuts are in fact dysfunctional. And in being numbed, not even useful for torture.”
The single digit kneads and wriggles, kneads and wriggles. Yes, I am milked... drained. It feels good... it feels cathartic... but most of all... it is most humiliating.
“May as well have them excised and plastinated. Better used as paperweights.”
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