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...”