A Cuckolded Gimp II

This will be the last segment from this story. Don't know what is next.

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A rinsing spray sends away the odorous excretions, the warmth soothing the irritation. And I further meliorate by reminding myself the cuckolding began with my own indiscretions, foolishly telling my wife after discovery that she in turn could be free to indulge.

She did... is doing... and will continue to do.

The custom made latex suit is pulled from under me, gratefully sprayed to rinse away the build up of sweat then hung to dry. It was expensive, the wife having my body computer scanned so that it perfectly conforms... and is snug... the constant tightness sending a message of Feminine control.

I am then soaped and Nurse Elsa demonstrates her handiwork with a straight edged razor and a complete body shave. I look up to see the red light of the video camera blinking, cognizant that either wife Mrs. Charles is watching with one of her lovers, or the demeaning cleansing session is recorded for later amusement.

“You’ll need to be milked, Mr. Charles. That prostate, it got to be worked. And Mrs. Charles says no ice this time. She quite the sadist, Mr. Charles. It gonna really hurt, that little thing of yours locked up with no room to harden for me.”
    
Though the procedure, performed most clinically, extends my time out of bondage, I moan. I have no other manner of expressing my disquiet. There is chagrin is being so intimately handled, opened and explored by a woman. And beyond the odd discomfort/pleasure of anal penetration and digital manipulation is that a second video camera will be positioned such that my wife and/or whomever is satiating her of late will watch in close high definition color as this daunting woman of color drains me... most slowly... of male essence.  Humiliating... degrading... and when my penis fights its enclosure... agonizing.

Lying prostrate, Nurse Elsa finishes the first segment of her quick shave, gliding the straight edged razor everywhere accessible. Over the many months I have learned to remain perfectly still, bound wrists and ankles aside... learned to submissively let the accomplished woman have her way with me. Knicks and cuts detract.

And now my bindings are loosened, just enough so I can rise and kneel on all fours. This offers further access for the razor. And of course affords an inspection of the mass of steel mesh trammeling my penis. Nurse Elsa finds fascination there... that a woman thousands of miles away controls the male libido. She has no key, and the combination of deeply inserted penis tube, a connecting post thrust through a Prince Albert piercing, and a tiny padlock holding such in place along with a small most constricting cage over a penis kept forcibly flaccid, intrigues.

“Mrs. Charles, she come home... some day. Then maybe I see what little thing is in here,” the words coming as she playfully jostles the entire collection of hardened metal.   

This stirs... and such is not good. For the slightest engorging brings discomfort leading to incredible pain.

Yes, the interior of the devilish cockcage is spiked, my wife pridefully announcing the extra cost is worth every penny.  

The shaving resumes. I am always amazed in feeling Nurse Elsa glide the razor about the exposed portion of my scrotum. The so termed control ring, that which holds the constricting cockcage in place, encircles high, leaving a strained sac and the testicles within vulnerable to a woman’s inspecting hands and fingers.

Mrs. Charles finds the accessibility amusing... at least before she left to tour the world in a quest for the perfect lay.   

The razor works my thighs and belly. Caution equal to my scrotum comes at the chest, those pink nipples amazingly sensitive with the long interlude of forced chastity. Yet Nurse Elsa deftly works to avoid mishap. Then finally comes my head. Yes, I am kept bald, and have come to realize that glabrousness when confined 24/7 in tight latex is merciful. Hair and sweat coated rubber can bring itching never to be scratched and near insanity in futilely attempting.

Standing directly before me, the handsome woman of size and strength... and remarkable feminine resolve... offers an opportunity to adore. I love and revere my wife, but with the constant bondage and chastity, I now find myself in awe of all women.

Perhaps she will walk me a little. When being first acclimated to long term bondage, I was leashed and walked about the dungeon room during these short respites. Yes, Nurse Elsa likes having a naked man on a leash. So I inquire, the words indiscernible with molt gag in place.

“No point in talking, Mr. Charles. Can’t understand a thing you’re saying. If you’re eager to be put back into bondage I’ll make the milking as quick as possible. But you know it’s best that you be thoroughly drained.”

How can my pleas be so miserably misinterpreted?

I put aside attempts at verbal communication and whine... like a puppy. Such always elicits words of sympathy... but nothing else. I have come to realize that Nurse Elsa, though pleasant and professional, enjoys her governance, finds amusement in controlling the naked and bound Caucasian male... and being well paid for it.

I know, for heightening the irony is that it is my money which funds her... and the extravagant travels of Mrs. Charles... and her dalliances... and all the gigolos she hires.

The money flows rapidly... fortunately in both directions. Yet I must often ponder... fortunate for whom?

Nurse Elsa steps away and returns with the spray hose. Such soothing warmth, the remnants of bath and shaving methodically rinsed away, the marble slab serving as my cleansing table well drained. Then she rinses my drool cup, the vessel now to collect that which long, knowing fingers will milk from my prostate.

“You try to be quiet, Mr. Charles. Keep in mind this is for the best,” the words coming as a block of wood is wedged between my knees, further encouraging proper presentation for anal penetration. “Can you keep your head down for me... or do you need a collar and strap?”

My reply comes when I lower chin and molt gag to the marble surface then obediently arch my back. Resistance to Feminine power has long been driven from me... my psyche depleted of notions of masculine retaliation. As I see Nurse Elsa move in place the portable video camera, I instead realize my role is to entertain Feminine power... not contest it.

The ritual of milking begins. A firm left hand grasps an inviting scrotum, obviating that initial squirm that comes with anal assault. A right hand, fingers coated in unguent, splays my gluteal cleft and liberally lubricates. Though about to face the agony of a raging penis forcibly entrapped, I tell myself that the moments of release from unending bondage should be enjoyed.

But how I can do so?

Looking back between well spread thighs, I note the drool cup positioned for drool of a different nature, a brown left hand that seems to celebrate its championing hold on the male reproductive organs, and busy fingers making a sphincter more pliant for penetration.

Where does a woman learn such stultifying control over intimate male organs... the function of ejaculation? My penis should be firming, turning to stone, my ejaculatory muscles primed and ready to launch the mighty male seed. There should be glory, a conquest about to come, a surrendering vagina warm and wet, reluctant yet eager to feel the virility of male tumescence.

Instead there are tantalizing fingers, fear, concern, and the need to remain as flaccid as possible, lest I hurt myself.

I hope I do not whimper for the camera. For my supersensitive hearing will detect my wife, thousands of miles away, in the arms of a well endowed lover, laughing as my seed meekly oozes into a waiting cup.

It is so unmanly, to be milked... by a woman. She takes, reversing a process in which the vaunted male should give... vigorously. But that is what my wife has decreed... that I am not an alpha male and will not live as one.

“And in we go!” Nurse Elsa proclaims with zeal as I sense one finger then two thrust inward.

I lurch like a scared puppy, the number of times I have felt her steadfast digital entry notwithstanding. She finds my gland with aplomb, fingers beginning a steady circular motion. A soft voice comforts, the tone as if tending a child. Yet the cooed words admonish, reminding not to harden, to remain flaccid, my penis not to fight its steel enclosure... not to challenge the dozens of sharp spikes within.

This of course begins the cascade... toward stiffness. The humiliation, the pressure of her fingers, the psychological duress... as when someone suggests you not focus on some obscure object. And of course your eyes thereafter remain riveted upon it.

So I begin to harden. Nurse Elsa knows this... finds amusement... my labored moans and guttural gasps of pain greeted by low laughter. Forehead pressed to the cool marble, I look to see the flow begin. Yes, the Prince’s Wand, length and shape designed to internally abrade the gland which Nurse Elsa palpates, becomes a small drainage pipe. Clear viscous fluid oozes, pausing at the tip then drooling in a long strand to the waiting cup. Occasionally Nurse Elsa shifts to assess her progress, patiently kneading, awaiting the whiteness, the indication of semen, my sperm ducts joining in the slow degradation.      
  
I try to beg... for ice... fully aware that milkings are mandatory and no beseeching will ever interrupt that task. But numbing cold would greatly alleviate the self induced pain of attempted erection. And of course the molt gag causes my words of entreaty to turn to a comical burble, spurring more laughter.

“Oh Mr. Charles, you needn’t thank me,” Nurse Elsa adding to the comedy in conveniently misinterpreting my futile communication. “Mrs. Charles, she pay me quite well.”

With her benefactor, my wife, both listening and watching on the video, her condescending reply will be noted I am sure.

So I continue to grimace. The daunting Nurse Elsa continues her deft manipulation. My intubated penis continues to give up what my governess forces from it. And I console myself knowing that when the long slow interlude of torment ends, I will sense the glow of post coitus eruption... without erupting.