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. 


EDWARD said...

I love this story.Perhaps I'm in need of some thearapy also.Bacon fat sounds unappealing though

Chris Bellows said...


For you Mrs. Breckenridge will use butter. But the steel wool is mandatory.

Care to make a appointment?



Anonymous said...

The alluding to multiple males undergoing this treatment with the different coloured bands was a Mistressful stroke of genius.

The matter of fact way his big Sister can discuss his penis now and look and feel it is great too.