Saturday, May 30, 2015
Stroking the Male - Segment X
“Are you hungry? How was your therapy session?” sister Susan politely attempts to make conversation as she pops a waiting dinner plate into the microwave.
Randy is quiet... glum... and certainly hungry. Mrs. Boughton emptied him... of all.
“Yes... I’d... I’d like to eat,” Randy’s voice so meek
“Coming right up. Melanie enjoyed this, I hope you will as well. One of those new microwave dinners.”
“Can I change first?”
“No. It’s late. Melanie is already well into her homework. And you have to study too. Mrs. Breckenridge spent a lot of time with you this afternoon. Were you a good boy for her?” Susan smiling with the thought of any boy displaying disobedience with the experienced disciplinarian.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Ma’am? That’s new, Susan thinks to herself... and an improvement.
“So she had you use your bowl?” Susan assuring that Randy had packed it as Mrs. Breckenridge instructed.
Susan finds herself smiling with Randy’s silence, well aware of the operant conditioning Mrs. Breckenridge is conducting, the bowl just one element of the masturbation ritual. Such cleverness... the straight backed chair... the scent of bacon... the awkward pose assumed in sitting on a woman’s bare thighs... all leading to that which the male normally so much covets... ejaculation.
The microwave beeps. Susan removes a warmed plate and places it on the table before Randy. She sits opposite, leaning forth as a famished Randy partakes. She’ll not let Randy avoid the subject matter, however delicate.
“And how is your penis?” speaking sotto voce in concern for Melanie. “You can tell me. I understand. I’ve taken care of you for many years... all of you.”
“It’s very sore, Miss Susan.”
Miss Susan? And only after the first therapy session. This is working, Susan excitedly realizes.
“So she had you fill your bowl again. Did you enjoy that? Being pleasured without all that... those magazines?”
Randy takes a forkful, chewing in thought... in reluctance. The afternoon was so... cathartic... perhaps traumatic, but for the fact he was emptied of his seed... a need that had built greatly since his Saturday encounter.
“Well... my stuff was there.”
“So she let you see it? Do you enjoy that? It’s such nasty stuff Randy.”
“I guess I did... but not really.”
“More steel wool?” Susan bluntly inquires.
“Yes.”
“Well after you’ve eaten, we’ve have a look. You’ll need to apply ointment. You must be very sore indeed.”
Saturday, May 23, 2015
Stroking the Male - Segment IX
“Bring him to me. His penis needs attention,” Mrs. Breckenridge hiking her skirt then sitting on the austere bare wooden chair.
Mrs. Boughton places the tray on the table and steps to unhook Randy’s immobilizing neck collar. Once again he feels the woman’s strength as she guides to Mrs. Breckenridge, thighs beckoning.
“We like rituals here, Randy. Go to your knees and place your doggie bowl at my feet. Then ask me to masturbate you. Tell me how much you’d like to have your penis stroked by a firm commanding woman. You would like to have it stroked wouldn’t you? It’s standing so stiffly!”
Mrs. Boughton releases her grip. Randy, weakened by the purging of his stomach, the cleansing of his bowels, forced to so long stand on toes, immediately goes to the floor, humbly placing the bowl between Mrs. Breckenridge’s shoes.
“Would you please masturbate me, Mrs. Breckenridge?” the words so feeble.
“Oh, you boys are all so eager to show off. So eager to attain pleasure. Come and sit. You know how I want you. And in being hairless you can now better feel my skin. Better than frottaging against the bed sheets, don’t you think?”
Randy stands and turns, Mrs. Boughton guiding, his legs weak. He indeed knows the position, masturbated days before in front of older sister Susan. He steps back and straddles, feeling Mrs. Breckenridge grasp his testicles, his organs becoming a woman’s handle. He quakes, aware of the coming pleasure... aware of the coming pain.
“Hook him up nice and tight, Mrs. Boughton. This one truly loves his bondage.”
As a firm hand tugs his scrotum, strongly suggesting he sit, Mrs. Boughton moves to the left and grasps an ankle cuff. She lifts, bending his leg. With the sound of a click, Randy’s left foot is secured high to the back of the chair at the level of Mrs. Breckenridge’s waist. The right ankle is similarly restrained and Randy finds himself sitting, his upturned feet forcing him to lean forward.
As Randy hears Mrs. Breckenridge work the jar on the small table, the smell of bacon wafts. Next he feels his anus being lubricated despite remaining moist and most pliable from the afternoon’s deep enema.
Randy looks down to see his yellow plastic dog bowl resting to wait. Oddly, his penis waggles, seemingly in expectation. It is only his second therapeutic session, and the Pavlovian prompts seem to be already working. The yellow bowl... the smell of bacon... naked and bound before two fully clothed women... his organs react to the prompts.
“Would you like to view some of your nasty porn, Randy? There’s more. We didn’t have enough wall space for it all. Mrs. Boughton saved some particularly deviant depictions. Show him please, Mrs Boughton,” the words coming as two fingers glide inward, Randy so easily opened.
Mrs. Breckenridge proves to be prescient. Indeed, Mrs. Boughton steps forth, magazine in hand, opening to a page with a naked boy kneeling on all fours. A leather clad Dominatrix is forcing him open with a mammoth strap on. Pegging!.. and the woman smiles so wickedly!
“Oh I can feel his reaction, Mrs. Boughton. This one does like his demented porn!”
Yes, knowing fingers sense the tiny but meaningful muscles, preparing for ejaculation... an eruption that will not come until a controlling woman deems such appropriate.
Meanwhile the scent of bacon wafts throughout as Mrs. Breckridge once again coats the genitals, the newly shorn scrotum welcoming her attention. Mrs. Boughton’s razor has slightly chafed the heretofore untouched flesh there, thus Randy gasps as the salt infused unguent offers an unexpected burn.
Next comes the penis, so firm, so in need, so much wanting to show its power. Yet it will yield... it must yield, Mrs. Breckenridge too experienced in handling the male organ to let it have its way.
Randy squeezes his pubo coccygeus muscles in defiance, a futile attempt to ejaculate and ruin what is a most ignominious display... end the humiliation.
Yet is that what he truly wants? He has not touched himself... there... since his penis was last set afire. His loins seem to be brimming, overflowing in need.
The attempt brings another wicked snicker as the stroking hand presses downward, dipping low the penis tip, forestalling climax and bringing another gasp of discomfort. Mrs. Breckenridge knows too well the male anatomy. Randy begins to realize his manhood may no longer really be his.
“He’s trying to come for me, Mrs. Boughton. Imagine that. Wanting to end all the fun.”
Mrs. Boughton smiles, turning the page, the Dominatrix fully impaling the hapless naked youth, his look one of both anguish and lust.
“You’ll not shortcut your therapy Randy. Boys within my grip ejaculate on my command and not before, ha, ha, ha.”
The penetrating fingers wriggle about deep within, Randy sensing anal penetration as he must view the sordid depictions of it. Penis and scrotum coated, Mrs. Breckenridge reaches for the steel wool. She knows to apply it gently, and slowly of course, first awakening the sensitive flesh, introducing the stinging salt to the shaft. She never fully opens the skin... no cuts, no bleeding. That would render the organs to much healing time... obviating another therapy session. No she chafes, knowing that, ironically, such brings more pain than if the flesh was opened.
Her efforts are both sensual and agonizing, particularly in introducing the pornography that is known to excite... to arouse. And Mrs. Boughton so nicely fulfills her role... teasing... taunting... smiling suggestively.
“Now Randy, I do like it when a boy fills his bowl. And you do want to please me don’t you? Show off for Mrs. Boughton as well. She has not before seen you empty yourself for a governing woman... and I know you so much enjoy that,” the words coming as a greased hand laden with steel wool works, rubbing so slowly, bringing both pleasure and agony.
Ah, the salt.
Mrs. Boughton places the tray on the table and steps to unhook Randy’s immobilizing neck collar. Once again he feels the woman’s strength as she guides to Mrs. Breckenridge, thighs beckoning.
“We like rituals here, Randy. Go to your knees and place your doggie bowl at my feet. Then ask me to masturbate you. Tell me how much you’d like to have your penis stroked by a firm commanding woman. You would like to have it stroked wouldn’t you? It’s standing so stiffly!”
Mrs. Boughton releases her grip. Randy, weakened by the purging of his stomach, the cleansing of his bowels, forced to so long stand on toes, immediately goes to the floor, humbly placing the bowl between Mrs. Breckenridge’s shoes.
“Would you please masturbate me, Mrs. Breckenridge?” the words so feeble.
“Oh, you boys are all so eager to show off. So eager to attain pleasure. Come and sit. You know how I want you. And in being hairless you can now better feel my skin. Better than frottaging against the bed sheets, don’t you think?”
Randy stands and turns, Mrs. Boughton guiding, his legs weak. He indeed knows the position, masturbated days before in front of older sister Susan. He steps back and straddles, feeling Mrs. Breckenridge grasp his testicles, his organs becoming a woman’s handle. He quakes, aware of the coming pleasure... aware of the coming pain.
“Hook him up nice and tight, Mrs. Boughton. This one truly loves his bondage.”
As a firm hand tugs his scrotum, strongly suggesting he sit, Mrs. Boughton moves to the left and grasps an ankle cuff. She lifts, bending his leg. With the sound of a click, Randy’s left foot is secured high to the back of the chair at the level of Mrs. Breckenridge’s waist. The right ankle is similarly restrained and Randy finds himself sitting, his upturned feet forcing him to lean forward.
As Randy hears Mrs. Breckenridge work the jar on the small table, the smell of bacon wafts. Next he feels his anus being lubricated despite remaining moist and most pliable from the afternoon’s deep enema.
Randy looks down to see his yellow plastic dog bowl resting to wait. Oddly, his penis waggles, seemingly in expectation. It is only his second therapeutic session, and the Pavlovian prompts seem to be already working. The yellow bowl... the smell of bacon... naked and bound before two fully clothed women... his organs react to the prompts.
“Would you like to view some of your nasty porn, Randy? There’s more. We didn’t have enough wall space for it all. Mrs. Boughton saved some particularly deviant depictions. Show him please, Mrs Boughton,” the words coming as two fingers glide inward, Randy so easily opened.
Mrs. Breckenridge proves to be prescient. Indeed, Mrs. Boughton steps forth, magazine in hand, opening to a page with a naked boy kneeling on all fours. A leather clad Dominatrix is forcing him open with a mammoth strap on. Pegging!.. and the woman smiles so wickedly!
“Oh I can feel his reaction, Mrs. Boughton. This one does like his demented porn!”
Yes, knowing fingers sense the tiny but meaningful muscles, preparing for ejaculation... an eruption that will not come until a controlling woman deems such appropriate.
Meanwhile the scent of bacon wafts throughout as Mrs. Breckridge once again coats the genitals, the newly shorn scrotum welcoming her attention. Mrs. Boughton’s razor has slightly chafed the heretofore untouched flesh there, thus Randy gasps as the salt infused unguent offers an unexpected burn.
Next comes the penis, so firm, so in need, so much wanting to show its power. Yet it will yield... it must yield, Mrs. Breckenridge too experienced in handling the male organ to let it have its way.
Randy squeezes his pubo coccygeus muscles in defiance, a futile attempt to ejaculate and ruin what is a most ignominious display... end the humiliation.
Yet is that what he truly wants? He has not touched himself... there... since his penis was last set afire. His loins seem to be brimming, overflowing in need.
The attempt brings another wicked snicker as the stroking hand presses downward, dipping low the penis tip, forestalling climax and bringing another gasp of discomfort. Mrs. Breckenridge knows too well the male anatomy. Randy begins to realize his manhood may no longer really be his.
“He’s trying to come for me, Mrs. Boughton. Imagine that. Wanting to end all the fun.”
Mrs. Boughton smiles, turning the page, the Dominatrix fully impaling the hapless naked youth, his look one of both anguish and lust.
“You’ll not shortcut your therapy Randy. Boys within my grip ejaculate on my command and not before, ha, ha, ha.”
The penetrating fingers wriggle about deep within, Randy sensing anal penetration as he must view the sordid depictions of it. Penis and scrotum coated, Mrs. Breckenridge reaches for the steel wool. She knows to apply it gently, and slowly of course, first awakening the sensitive flesh, introducing the stinging salt to the shaft. She never fully opens the skin... no cuts, no bleeding. That would render the organs to much healing time... obviating another therapy session. No she chafes, knowing that, ironically, such brings more pain than if the flesh was opened.
Her efforts are both sensual and agonizing, particularly in introducing the pornography that is known to excite... to arouse. And Mrs. Boughton so nicely fulfills her role... teasing... taunting... smiling suggestively.
“Now Randy, I do like it when a boy fills his bowl. And you do want to please me don’t you? Show off for Mrs. Boughton as well. She has not before seen you empty yourself for a governing woman... and I know you so much enjoy that,” the words coming as a greased hand laden with steel wool works, rubbing so slowly, bringing both pleasure and agony.
Ah, the salt.
Saturday, May 16, 2015
Stroking the Male - Segment VIII
Randy stands in wait. Mrs. Boughton termed it the masturbation room... actually using the term ‘your masturbation room’.
Inflated neck collar hooked to a chain emanating from the ceiling, wrist cuffs clipped together and returned to his back, Randy stares at a montage on each of the four walls. Someone, presumably Mrs. Breckenridge, perhaps her assistant, has taken the time to dismember his entire stash of female dominant porn and post page after page on the walls. Randy is chagrined to see there was enough explicit material to cover the entire room. He was not before aware of the prolificness of his collection. Photo after photo of Dominatrixes assuming authoritative poses, naked young males trussed and in complete capitulation.
Otherwise the room is windowless and empty but for a small table and single wooden straight backed chair, similar to that which sister Susan arranged in the livingroom for his initial therapeutic masturbation. It is likewise centered.
Dog bowl dutifully held in his teeth, Randy finds himself strangely calm. Mrs. Boughton proved to be quite effective, the contents of his bowels spewing forth to join the emetic and his stomach contents. After slapping down his erection, he was indeed catheterized, a bladder irrigation slowly filling him while the woman whisked about a straight razor, removing what little pubic hair had been propagating.
Catheter opened, bladder relieved, the mess of bodily fluids was all washed to the drain, Randy ceremonially purged of all within then soaped and tenderly bathed.
Now he stands, erection slowly returning despite the trauma, Mrs. Boughton’s thoroughness bringing a curious stupor. Purified and cleansed inside and out.
Finally there comes the sound of the door latch. Forced to stand on toes, Randy daintily shuffles about, turning to face his therapist. Mrs. Breckenridge enters.
“I trust you enjoyed Mrs. Boughton’s tendance. Though young she spent many years in a psychiatric hospital, caring for those not quite able to manage themselves. Firm and scrupulous, wouldn’t you agree?”
Randy hums his concurrence, not daring to drop the bowl, the high and tight neck collar inhibiting even a simple nod.
“I hope you appreciate the wall decorations, Randy. We’re going to change the course of this path you’ve chosen.... stroking and frottaging your penis to the fantasy of domineering women.”
As she speaks, Mrs. Breckenridge approaches Randy’s nakedness. Standing before him she pauses. The left hand lowers to palm his scrotum, well exposed with his penis tip pointing skyward. She snickers and smiles wickedly. Knowing the smile to be rare, knowing it has before preceded wicked manipulation of his anatomy, Randy shudders. Mrs. Breckenridge notes his fear... but also notes that his erection wavers not.
“This is where you will be brought to be masturbated on each visit. It’s immersion therapy, Randy, intended to overwhelm with an overabundance of arousing cerebral input. I would say it’s working. Wouldn’t you?” Mrs. Breckenridge snickering again as the index finger of her free hand taps the upstanding purple tip of his penis.
“Before you leave here, after I masturbate you, I’ll want to show you something... someone. More cerebral input... more deterrent...”
With that the door again opens, Mrs. Boughton entering to distract Mrs. Breckenridge’s thoughts.
“Ah... some salted bacon fat... some steel wool,” Mrs. Breckenridge nodding to the tray in Mrs. Boughton’s hands. “And in being so nicely cleansed, no gloves required. You’ve been emptied of most bodily fluids. I’m now going to drain you of more...”
Inflated neck collar hooked to a chain emanating from the ceiling, wrist cuffs clipped together and returned to his back, Randy stares at a montage on each of the four walls. Someone, presumably Mrs. Breckenridge, perhaps her assistant, has taken the time to dismember his entire stash of female dominant porn and post page after page on the walls. Randy is chagrined to see there was enough explicit material to cover the entire room. He was not before aware of the prolificness of his collection. Photo after photo of Dominatrixes assuming authoritative poses, naked young males trussed and in complete capitulation.
Otherwise the room is windowless and empty but for a small table and single wooden straight backed chair, similar to that which sister Susan arranged in the livingroom for his initial therapeutic masturbation. It is likewise centered.
Dog bowl dutifully held in his teeth, Randy finds himself strangely calm. Mrs. Boughton proved to be quite effective, the contents of his bowels spewing forth to join the emetic and his stomach contents. After slapping down his erection, he was indeed catheterized, a bladder irrigation slowly filling him while the woman whisked about a straight razor, removing what little pubic hair had been propagating.
Catheter opened, bladder relieved, the mess of bodily fluids was all washed to the drain, Randy ceremonially purged of all within then soaped and tenderly bathed.
Now he stands, erection slowly returning despite the trauma, Mrs. Boughton’s thoroughness bringing a curious stupor. Purified and cleansed inside and out.
Finally there comes the sound of the door latch. Forced to stand on toes, Randy daintily shuffles about, turning to face his therapist. Mrs. Breckenridge enters.
“I trust you enjoyed Mrs. Boughton’s tendance. Though young she spent many years in a psychiatric hospital, caring for those not quite able to manage themselves. Firm and scrupulous, wouldn’t you agree?”
Randy hums his concurrence, not daring to drop the bowl, the high and tight neck collar inhibiting even a simple nod.
“I hope you appreciate the wall decorations, Randy. We’re going to change the course of this path you’ve chosen.... stroking and frottaging your penis to the fantasy of domineering women.”
As she speaks, Mrs. Breckenridge approaches Randy’s nakedness. Standing before him she pauses. The left hand lowers to palm his scrotum, well exposed with his penis tip pointing skyward. She snickers and smiles wickedly. Knowing the smile to be rare, knowing it has before preceded wicked manipulation of his anatomy, Randy shudders. Mrs. Breckenridge notes his fear... but also notes that his erection wavers not.
“This is where you will be brought to be masturbated on each visit. It’s immersion therapy, Randy, intended to overwhelm with an overabundance of arousing cerebral input. I would say it’s working. Wouldn’t you?” Mrs. Breckenridge snickering again as the index finger of her free hand taps the upstanding purple tip of his penis.
“Before you leave here, after I masturbate you, I’ll want to show you something... someone. More cerebral input... more deterrent...”
With that the door again opens, Mrs. Boughton entering to distract Mrs. Breckenridge’s thoughts.
“Ah... some salted bacon fat... some steel wool,” Mrs. Breckenridge nodding to the tray in Mrs. Boughton’s hands. “And in being so nicely cleansed, no gloves required. You’ve been emptied of most bodily fluids. I’m now going to drain you of more...”
Monday, May 11, 2015
'Denying the Male' published
For those who have been enjoying/enjoyed 'Stroking the Male', I have published on Lulu the second part of the trilogy.... 'Denying the Male'. Some 10,000+ words. $3.25.
http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/denying-the-male/16718103
Saturday, May 9, 2015
Stroking the Male - Segment VII
Abruptly, the inner door opens. Randy feels fingers work about his wrist cuffs then hears a click. He ever so slightly pulls with his forearms, testing. The silent intruder has advanced his bondage, wrists now restrained together behind his back. Hands move to his shoulders. As a matching foam lined strip encircles his neck, he feels his penis further stiffen, cursing himself for his awkward greeting, his humble reaction to capitulation.
With a hiss of air, the soft neck collar, proving to be annoying high, expands, forcing further upwards his chin, the inflation greatly immobilizing his head. With the sound of another click comes motion and tension on the collar. The intruder also tests, gently pulling and pressing on the neck collar, establishing control.
“Breathe for me,” words finally uttered, the voice feminine, smooth and demanding.
Randy takes a lungful of air, the woman evidently assuring the tightness of the collar does not impede oxygen.
“Boys here are walked... always under control. Your collar is attached to a control rod. I also have a quirt which I rarely need to use more than once to convince a boy. You will find it is best to remain silent and react to my pushes and pulls.”
With that a surprisingly strong arm pulls Randy back into the interior. The door closes. He is turned. The control rod then pushes. Randy will be led about, the unseen woman directing from behind, his teeth gripping the dog bowl to ensure his silence.
Randy finds the side door leads into the basement of the unassuming house. The windows are high, emitting limited light, the flooring of concrete. The control rod encourages a turn to the left and Randy enters a large well lit chamber. It is windowless. In the center is a large padded chair, ominously garnished with numerous straps and buckles. There are stirrups, no doubt for the ankles and calves. Tubes dangle from above. As the rod directs, Randy is reminded of visits to the dentist, the chair elaborate and obviously adjustable.
“Sit.”
Randy obeys as the woman draws him backwards. She comes into his peripheral vision, standing to his side, the high and tight neck collar inhibiting motion of his head and a complete view. Quickly his wrist cuffs are released and his right wrist secured to the chair. The control rod directs him to lie back and is then released with the back of the neck collar secured to the chair. When the woman steps about to secure his left wrist, she comes into view for the first time.
Large but trimly athletic, she is uniformed in white. Blonde hair is neatly bobbed under a nurse’s cap. Blue eyes, her blank look is businesslike yet pleasant. She ignores Randy’s embarrassing hard on. It rages, the humiliation of being led about bound and naked feeding his penchant for feminine governance.
“You’re all so eager to visit,” the woman finally comments, nodding to Randy’s stiffness as she grasps his left leg and guides it to a stirrup.
With a click his ankle cuff is secured. With a final smooth and experienced move, the right leg is likewise placed in a stirrup, another click buckling the cuff in place.
“I am Mrs. Boughton... as I am sure you are aware... Mrs. Breckenridge’s assistant. I will prepare you for therapy. We prefer our boys to be clean... inside and out. You’ll find it to be uncomfortable but cathartic. In time you will acclimate to it. Have you eaten today?” a hand reaching to take Randy’s dog bowl.
“Lunch,” an awed and frightened Randy finding a response.
“You’ll find that for future visits, limited intake is best,” Mrs. Boughton moving to a cabinet.
Randy’s eyes try to follow, clinks of glassware suggesting Mrs. Boughton preparing something.
“I am going to purge you.. among other preparations.”
She returns, a tall glass filled with cloudy liquid.
“Drink this like a good boy. It’s a little bitter... but is best for you.”
Her words are kindly but her actions brusque. The fingers of the left hand pinch closed Randy’s nostrils. When he opens his mouth to breathe, he drinks indeed, Mrs. Boughton pouring the bitterness into his mouth. Randy sputters but swallows, fully aware of his helplessness. The liquid is ghastly.
The glass drained, Mrs. Boughton works with purpose. The chair is tilted back. The stirrups are well separated. A plastic bag is filled as Randy realizes his rosebud anus is not only well exposed but vulnerable. Rumbling and stomach spasms divert his concern as he sees an enema nozzle prepared. Randy becomes nauseous. Mrs. Boughton notes his look of consternation and smiles.
“Just let it all out. The floor is well drained, the room easily washed down... and not one boy has yet to hold down the ipecac... it’s a very effective emetic.”
With that, Randy loses his lunch spewing violently as the contents of his stomach concede. Mrs. Boughton laughs, ignoring the mess as she steps between Randy’s high and parted feet, fingers lubricating his rectum, enema nozzle at the ready.
“Yes, we’ll going to rid you of everything. Just let it all flow,” a firm hand pressing the nozzle against a rectum pursed in futile defense.
“And we must do something with that erection. Catheterization is next. I want that bladder cleaned out then emptied as well...”
With a hiss of air, the soft neck collar, proving to be annoying high, expands, forcing further upwards his chin, the inflation greatly immobilizing his head. With the sound of another click comes motion and tension on the collar. The intruder also tests, gently pulling and pressing on the neck collar, establishing control.
“Breathe for me,” words finally uttered, the voice feminine, smooth and demanding.
Randy takes a lungful of air, the woman evidently assuring the tightness of the collar does not impede oxygen.
“Boys here are walked... always under control. Your collar is attached to a control rod. I also have a quirt which I rarely need to use more than once to convince a boy. You will find it is best to remain silent and react to my pushes and pulls.”
With that a surprisingly strong arm pulls Randy back into the interior. The door closes. He is turned. The control rod then pushes. Randy will be led about, the unseen woman directing from behind, his teeth gripping the dog bowl to ensure his silence.
Randy finds the side door leads into the basement of the unassuming house. The windows are high, emitting limited light, the flooring of concrete. The control rod encourages a turn to the left and Randy enters a large well lit chamber. It is windowless. In the center is a large padded chair, ominously garnished with numerous straps and buckles. There are stirrups, no doubt for the ankles and calves. Tubes dangle from above. As the rod directs, Randy is reminded of visits to the dentist, the chair elaborate and obviously adjustable.
“Sit.”
Randy obeys as the woman draws him backwards. She comes into his peripheral vision, standing to his side, the high and tight neck collar inhibiting motion of his head and a complete view. Quickly his wrist cuffs are released and his right wrist secured to the chair. The control rod directs him to lie back and is then released with the back of the neck collar secured to the chair. When the woman steps about to secure his left wrist, she comes into view for the first time.
Large but trimly athletic, she is uniformed in white. Blonde hair is neatly bobbed under a nurse’s cap. Blue eyes, her blank look is businesslike yet pleasant. She ignores Randy’s embarrassing hard on. It rages, the humiliation of being led about bound and naked feeding his penchant for feminine governance.
“You’re all so eager to visit,” the woman finally comments, nodding to Randy’s stiffness as she grasps his left leg and guides it to a stirrup.
With a click his ankle cuff is secured. With a final smooth and experienced move, the right leg is likewise placed in a stirrup, another click buckling the cuff in place.
“I am Mrs. Boughton... as I am sure you are aware... Mrs. Breckenridge’s assistant. I will prepare you for therapy. We prefer our boys to be clean... inside and out. You’ll find it to be uncomfortable but cathartic. In time you will acclimate to it. Have you eaten today?” a hand reaching to take Randy’s dog bowl.
“Lunch,” an awed and frightened Randy finding a response.
“You’ll find that for future visits, limited intake is best,” Mrs. Boughton moving to a cabinet.
Randy’s eyes try to follow, clinks of glassware suggesting Mrs. Boughton preparing something.
“I am going to purge you.. among other preparations.”
She returns, a tall glass filled with cloudy liquid.
“Drink this like a good boy. It’s a little bitter... but is best for you.”
Her words are kindly but her actions brusque. The fingers of the left hand pinch closed Randy’s nostrils. When he opens his mouth to breathe, he drinks indeed, Mrs. Boughton pouring the bitterness into his mouth. Randy sputters but swallows, fully aware of his helplessness. The liquid is ghastly.
The glass drained, Mrs. Boughton works with purpose. The chair is tilted back. The stirrups are well separated. A plastic bag is filled as Randy realizes his rosebud anus is not only well exposed but vulnerable. Rumbling and stomach spasms divert his concern as he sees an enema nozzle prepared. Randy becomes nauseous. Mrs. Boughton notes his look of consternation and smiles.
“Just let it all out. The floor is well drained, the room easily washed down... and not one boy has yet to hold down the ipecac... it’s a very effective emetic.”
With that, Randy loses his lunch spewing violently as the contents of his stomach concede. Mrs. Boughton laughs, ignoring the mess as she steps between Randy’s high and parted feet, fingers lubricating his rectum, enema nozzle at the ready.
“Yes, we’ll going to rid you of everything. Just let it all flow,” a firm hand pressing the nozzle against a rectum pursed in futile defense.
“And we must do something with that erection. Catheterization is next. I want that bladder cleaned out then emptied as well...”
Saturday, May 2, 2015
Stroking the Male - Segment VI
An apprehensive Randy turns a corner, leaving the edifice of his school out of sight, his teenaged colleagues lining to board the school bus. From his back pack, tucked next to his yellow plastic dog bowl, he pulls an email, from Mrs. Breckenridge, dutifully printed out by sister Susan.
Instructions for his initial visit to Mrs. Breckenridge’s home, it is Tuesday. His therapy is to begin in earnest.
‘She is a very exacting woman, Randy.... and most helpful. Do heed her wishes,’ sister Susan solemnly advised in handing him the note.
And so Randy reads with heed the bullet pointed advisement.
- 225 Washington Street, you will arrive promptly at 3:00 p.m.
- there is a left side entrance for boys undergoing therapy... use it
- upon entering the large foyer you will push the envelope from your sister under the inner door
- you will then disrobe... completely... boys in therapy are more comfortable naked... do not deny this of yourself
- hanging on a wall you will see several sets of nylon strips lined with foam... your set is blue
- encircle your wrists and ankles... secure utilizing the attached Velcro straps
- when finished you will press a buzzer to the right of the inner door then turn your back to it
- wait with your bowl... in your mouth... cuffed wrists behind your back
- my assistant, Mrs. Boughton will respond with your collar... you will be bathed... obey her
As Randy tucks the note away, his apprehension turns somewhat gleeful... strangely gleeful. He is to bear cuffs... and a collar. Perhaps this therapy should not give rise to dread, thoughts of the arousal found in his bondage mags coming to mind. But then the Saturday morning encounter is recalled... the horrific application of steel wool and salted bacon fat.... to a most sensitive male appendage. He shudders. Will there be more?
Odd that the initial strokes of Mrs. Breckenridge were so delightful. Even in being so embarrassingly exposed before his big sister, his stash of porn mockingly displayed, there was an unexplainable thrill. But then came the suffering... and so aptly timed to deter what normally brings nirvana.
Still, his discharge was vast. Why?
225 Washington Street proves to be close by... too close by... too easy to rejoin Mrs. Breckenridge and her daunting therapy.
Randy walks to the left side entrance. The door so facilely yields...
******************************************************************************
In stepping inward, Randy quakes. This morning, in responding to sister Susan’s embarrassing daily query... how does your penis feel?.. he was pleased to declare his organ was no longer irritated by the brush of his undergarments, constant applications of healing ointment mollifying the Saturday morning assault of Mrs. Breckenridge.
But now he must face again Mrs. Breckenridge... masturbator of boys... and her therapy.
He removes the envelope from his backpack and slips it under a thick inner door. He knows it to contain the $50 emolument demanded for his twice weekly visits. He also removes his yellow plastic dog bowl, the thin overlapping edge designed to be gripped by teeth... formerly canine... now human.
Hanging from the wall, as expected, is an array of nylon strips... sets of white, black, green, orange, red, yellow, pink and finally blue... a most unmanly powder blue. Cuffs. How many are needed? How many are engaged in the so termed therapy?
Trying to calm himself, Randy disrobes, hanging his garments on empty hooks. In reaching for the powder blue, he encircles his left wrist and finds the foam lining to be comfortable... yet the nylon and attached Velcro strips and buckles to be formidable.
Right wrist, left ankle, right ankle, threading the Velcro strips through the buckles then folding over to secure is self evident. Next he bends. Shaking hands pick up the dog bowl, his mouth opening, teeth clenching. He then presses the button, hearing nothing in response, turns and pushes his cuffed wrists behind him.
Then he waits... and most amazingly... he slowly tumefies... his recovered organ eager to greet the masturbator of boys... demented boys... deviant boys... boys in need of a cure.
Instructions for his initial visit to Mrs. Breckenridge’s home, it is Tuesday. His therapy is to begin in earnest.
‘She is a very exacting woman, Randy.... and most helpful. Do heed her wishes,’ sister Susan solemnly advised in handing him the note.
And so Randy reads with heed the bullet pointed advisement.
- 225 Washington Street, you will arrive promptly at 3:00 p.m.
- there is a left side entrance for boys undergoing therapy... use it
- upon entering the large foyer you will push the envelope from your sister under the inner door
- you will then disrobe... completely... boys in therapy are more comfortable naked... do not deny this of yourself
- hanging on a wall you will see several sets of nylon strips lined with foam... your set is blue
- encircle your wrists and ankles... secure utilizing the attached Velcro straps
- when finished you will press a buzzer to the right of the inner door then turn your back to it
- wait with your bowl... in your mouth... cuffed wrists behind your back
- my assistant, Mrs. Boughton will respond with your collar... you will be bathed... obey her
As Randy tucks the note away, his apprehension turns somewhat gleeful... strangely gleeful. He is to bear cuffs... and a collar. Perhaps this therapy should not give rise to dread, thoughts of the arousal found in his bondage mags coming to mind. But then the Saturday morning encounter is recalled... the horrific application of steel wool and salted bacon fat.... to a most sensitive male appendage. He shudders. Will there be more?
Odd that the initial strokes of Mrs. Breckenridge were so delightful. Even in being so embarrassingly exposed before his big sister, his stash of porn mockingly displayed, there was an unexplainable thrill. But then came the suffering... and so aptly timed to deter what normally brings nirvana.
Still, his discharge was vast. Why?
225 Washington Street proves to be close by... too close by... too easy to rejoin Mrs. Breckenridge and her daunting therapy.
Randy walks to the left side entrance. The door so facilely yields...
******************************************************************************
In stepping inward, Randy quakes. This morning, in responding to sister Susan’s embarrassing daily query... how does your penis feel?.. he was pleased to declare his organ was no longer irritated by the brush of his undergarments, constant applications of healing ointment mollifying the Saturday morning assault of Mrs. Breckenridge.
But now he must face again Mrs. Breckenridge... masturbator of boys... and her therapy.
He removes the envelope from his backpack and slips it under a thick inner door. He knows it to contain the $50 emolument demanded for his twice weekly visits. He also removes his yellow plastic dog bowl, the thin overlapping edge designed to be gripped by teeth... formerly canine... now human.
Hanging from the wall, as expected, is an array of nylon strips... sets of white, black, green, orange, red, yellow, pink and finally blue... a most unmanly powder blue. Cuffs. How many are needed? How many are engaged in the so termed therapy?
Trying to calm himself, Randy disrobes, hanging his garments on empty hooks. In reaching for the powder blue, he encircles his left wrist and finds the foam lining to be comfortable... yet the nylon and attached Velcro strips and buckles to be formidable.
Right wrist, left ankle, right ankle, threading the Velcro strips through the buckles then folding over to secure is self evident. Next he bends. Shaking hands pick up the dog bowl, his mouth opening, teeth clenching. He then presses the button, hearing nothing in response, turns and pushes his cuffed wrists behind him.
Then he waits... and most amazingly... he slowly tumefies... his recovered organ eager to greet the masturbator of boys... demented boys... deviant boys... boys in need of a cure.
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