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...”