The Highland Park mansion of Tie Me Chicago is easily found and recognized, depicted on the home page of the website. It’s large and majestic, built at the turn of the last century, no doubt by some wealthy industrialist.
Though a retail establishment, there is limited signage, no gaudy neon. A large brown wooden plank hangs from the porch, routed within and painted in gold are the letters ‘Tie Me Chicago’. It’s slightly before 7:00 p.m. and I note my hand somewhat shakes as I reach for the doorbell. It is then that I note a small sign, suggesting entrance without the need to ring.
My arm moves to the door, hand twisting the knob, I step within. Somewhat assuaging my anxiety, I enter the parlor of what could be considered an opulent residence. There is nothing to suggest that risque and exotic artwork is both fashioned and sold in the premises. Instead the dark wooden paneling and rich dark red carpeting project a hominess. Only a reception desk, turned toward the entrance to greet visitors hints at the house being a commercial facility.
As I step inward, a pretty young girl hastily steps from an adjoining room, coffee cup in hand.
“You have an appointment?” her voice timid.
“I’m Matt, from the county fair,” gazing as the girl looks into a large notebook opened on the desk.
She appears familiar. Placing her is difficult until I realize it’s the clothing that proves troublesome. I have before seem her... on the Website, helplessly dangling from the ubiquitous circle of metal, her nakedness festooned with hemp. If I recall, a sizable full color print edition of her captive form... her submission to the skills of the Nawashi... was priced at over $1,000.
“Oh yes, Miss Midori has made a note here in the appointment book. You have not before modeled for her... not here. She has suggested there may be a miscommunication... that the atmosphere for Saturday evening modeling is rather... libertine. That you should be forewarned.”
Before I can reply, the front door opens. In steps a very well dressed middle aged gentleman, attire not surprising considering the surroundings and the upscale neighborhood. But with him is a younger male... collared... and on a leash... and not so much dressed as summarily covered in only a shawl... hands and arms not to be seen, the bare legs and feet telling.
The debonair gentleman simply nods and proceeds into the adjoining room, collared companion heeling as would a dog. When the gentleman snaps firmly the leash, the lad lunges, the hem of the cape fluttering to briefly expose a parcel of smooth rounded buttock flesh. The scene makes no impression on the girl receptionist.
“Mr. ah... Mr. Matt,” the girl drawing me from my stunned silence.
“Well, my intention was to meet... and talk. I’ve only met Miss Matsumoto once... and it was briefly,” my composure finally returning.
“She does have a certain attractive savoir faire, does she not?” the girl beams in apparent admiration.
I nod in agreement, though ‘intriguing’ would be the word for my characterization.
“Well, why don’t I have you prepared and afterwards you can discuss your evening’s participation with Miss Matusumoto. She’s tied up until eight,” the pun comes once again as the girl presses a button.
Have me prepared? Curiously forceful phraseology.
“Please have a seat, Mr. Matt. The clinicians will take you shortly.”
The girl points to a straight back chair to the left of the entrance door. Somewhat bewildered, the sight of the leashed man, possibly more aptly described as a boy, still lingers.
In thought, I sit. Needing to calm, my mind returns to Eve... Miss Eve...
Saturday, February 27, 2016
Saturday, February 20, 2016
Tie Me Chicago X
I nap, awakening late Saturday afternoon. There is enough time for a light meal then a shower. My mind remains reeling, the hour of my appointment in Highland Park approaches. 8:00 p.m. Then I recall the instruction to be there an hour early for ‘preparation’.
In the hurly burly of watching the teaser video clip, then recalling the eventful bath with Miss Eve, I have not given that much thought. There was no preparation at the Macon County fair. What is required in the studio of Tie Me Chicago?
Apprehension growing, perhaps I should cancel. As I retrieve my cell phone, phone number in the history log, I have second thoughts. Would I be permitted to reschedule? And if so, would making another appointment put aside the need for this so termed preparation? Probably not. Maybe I should take some time off from work and visit Tie Me Chicago during a week day when it would be unlikely for Midori Matsumoto to be busy with prominent customers. Yes, just casually stroll in, say hello, indulge myself in the presence of the mysterious woman of Japanese culture, the noted Nawashi.
My internet search indicated there are very few accomplished female Nawashi’s, in my mind enhancing the intrigue... her aura. After cancelling, would she be likely to condescend and warmly welcome ‘Matt from the county fair’, as my name is undoubtedly logged into her appointment book?
No. I dress, deciding what is done is done. If I am once again going to be mesmerized by her presence, I must keep the appointment.
To the parking garage, I contemplate this quirky attraction to her. Am I placing myself in jeopardy? Possibly. I console, telling myself the woman is a professional. Obviously any serious mishaps in binding her models... and the website suggested dozens upon dozens... would certainly be known, splashed about in the press, possibly making a headline in one of the tabloids.
And then I realize. Is it jeopardy, fear, awe of feminine power which attracts?
I unlock and enter my car. Start the engine. The drive to Highland Park is quick yet with so many recent thoughts of Miss Eve, my mind flashes back...
******************************************************************************
That initial bath, my nakedness immersed in both soothing bath water and the regal presence of the daunting Eve, was an awakening... an epiphany of sorts. Prior episodes of climax in which I sexually discovered myself... experimented... resulted in no where near the sense of ecstasy, the nirvana, felt as when I spurted for Miss Eve. With knees buckling, by the time she completed her slow count, frustratingly delaying the word ‘three’, my weight was entirely born by her left arm... thumb embedded in my sphincter, palm pressed to my perineum, fingers diddling my testicles. The demonstration of her power amazed.
And augmenting this power was the realization that she never touched my penis, only teasingly spraying, building this indescribable desire to empty myself... to perform... for her. Before that afternoon, ejaculation involved furtive stroking under the cover of bed sheets. The first time I discharged the effluent of puberty, I panicked, thinking I had injured myself. It was not blood, I recall thinking in seeing the gooey mess on the sheets. Realizing such evidence must be cloaked, I thereafter spurted into tissues. It diminished the thrill. And offered more evidence to be disposed of in secrecy. The process seemed sordid.
But with Miss Eve, this passage of youth was transformed into something positive... neat... sweetly scented... clean... seemingly healthy. More importantly, with her words... her demeanor... her aura... I wanted to spurt for her... not for me... to please her with this exhibition of youthful virility. An exhibition totally under her control... ejaculating under her timing... her auspices.
Yes, I was made to perform for her... and it so much enhanced the delight... my loins obediently releasing to her count.
And so I looked forward to Fridays. The baths became a ritual. I became a good boy for Eve... and my mother... and my sister for that matter. For any questionable behavior was reported as the trio congregated before my mother left for her Friday bridge club. Bad behavior resulted in a well supervised shower, the thrill of exposing myself remaining, but with no ultimate release.
Nightly stroking under the sheets was curtailed... at Miss Eve’s strong suggestion... though more of a demand. No more soiled bedding, no more encrusted tissues. And my performance improved weekly, when my penis was encouraged to amuse her.
Eve began to measure me. I was growing and recording weekly the length of my penis not only became a ritual of curious pride, but of ownership. The organ was more hers than mine. It was as if she was growing a tree... watering and fertilizing in hopes of a mighty oak.
To her dismay, pubic hair began to forest that which she took delight in laving with a soapy cloth. After a month, the decision was made to shave me. Eve told me the deed was with my mother’s concurrence, but I had no way of confirming that... a subject matter to be broached perilously... and I certainly was not going to contest the grooming of what she owned.
Yes, though singular, our camaraderie grew, she having weekly access to every square inch of my flesh, every week sensing my physical development with every swath of the wash cloth. And I in turn sensed her strength, her physicality, despite the tenderness in caring for me.
Within months, having measured both my penis and the girth of my burgeoning testicles, she one afternoon proposed an additional aspect to our relationship.
“You’re growing Matt. But you need shape,” speaking as I lie in the warm bubble bath, reveling in the glow of having spurted for her... not only on cue but the initial wad arched to the very end of the tub, an accomplishment earning accolades which made me blush.
With her observation she leans back in the stool upon which she sits, always being quite proximate when I am made to exhibit my naked form. Eve hikes up the sleeve of her blouse, uncovering first the forearm then the bicep of a professional wrestler. Huge, untoward for a woman, she smiles in seeing me gawk. Then she flexes, the bicep instantly curling into a massive hillock. My eyes rivet in awe, further amazed when she makes the muscle flutter, alternately relaxing and contracting.
“I’m going to have you join me at the gym, Matt. I’m going to work you, have you perform for me a little differently. It’s for women only, but I know the owner. She’ll let you work out for free if you volunteer to perform a few chores.”
How can I decline?.. more time with the woman I am coming to adore... she who owns, cares and knows so much of me... and my adolescent needs... my male adolescent needs.
In the hurly burly of watching the teaser video clip, then recalling the eventful bath with Miss Eve, I have not given that much thought. There was no preparation at the Macon County fair. What is required in the studio of Tie Me Chicago?
Apprehension growing, perhaps I should cancel. As I retrieve my cell phone, phone number in the history log, I have second thoughts. Would I be permitted to reschedule? And if so, would making another appointment put aside the need for this so termed preparation? Probably not. Maybe I should take some time off from work and visit Tie Me Chicago during a week day when it would be unlikely for Midori Matsumoto to be busy with prominent customers. Yes, just casually stroll in, say hello, indulge myself in the presence of the mysterious woman of Japanese culture, the noted Nawashi.
My internet search indicated there are very few accomplished female Nawashi’s, in my mind enhancing the intrigue... her aura. After cancelling, would she be likely to condescend and warmly welcome ‘Matt from the county fair’, as my name is undoubtedly logged into her appointment book?
No. I dress, deciding what is done is done. If I am once again going to be mesmerized by her presence, I must keep the appointment.
To the parking garage, I contemplate this quirky attraction to her. Am I placing myself in jeopardy? Possibly. I console, telling myself the woman is a professional. Obviously any serious mishaps in binding her models... and the website suggested dozens upon dozens... would certainly be known, splashed about in the press, possibly making a headline in one of the tabloids.
And then I realize. Is it jeopardy, fear, awe of feminine power which attracts?
I unlock and enter my car. Start the engine. The drive to Highland Park is quick yet with so many recent thoughts of Miss Eve, my mind flashes back...
******************************************************************************
That initial bath, my nakedness immersed in both soothing bath water and the regal presence of the daunting Eve, was an awakening... an epiphany of sorts. Prior episodes of climax in which I sexually discovered myself... experimented... resulted in no where near the sense of ecstasy, the nirvana, felt as when I spurted for Miss Eve. With knees buckling, by the time she completed her slow count, frustratingly delaying the word ‘three’, my weight was entirely born by her left arm... thumb embedded in my sphincter, palm pressed to my perineum, fingers diddling my testicles. The demonstration of her power amazed.
And augmenting this power was the realization that she never touched my penis, only teasingly spraying, building this indescribable desire to empty myself... to perform... for her. Before that afternoon, ejaculation involved furtive stroking under the cover of bed sheets. The first time I discharged the effluent of puberty, I panicked, thinking I had injured myself. It was not blood, I recall thinking in seeing the gooey mess on the sheets. Realizing such evidence must be cloaked, I thereafter spurted into tissues. It diminished the thrill. And offered more evidence to be disposed of in secrecy. The process seemed sordid.
But with Miss Eve, this passage of youth was transformed into something positive... neat... sweetly scented... clean... seemingly healthy. More importantly, with her words... her demeanor... her aura... I wanted to spurt for her... not for me... to please her with this exhibition of youthful virility. An exhibition totally under her control... ejaculating under her timing... her auspices.
Yes, I was made to perform for her... and it so much enhanced the delight... my loins obediently releasing to her count.
And so I looked forward to Fridays. The baths became a ritual. I became a good boy for Eve... and my mother... and my sister for that matter. For any questionable behavior was reported as the trio congregated before my mother left for her Friday bridge club. Bad behavior resulted in a well supervised shower, the thrill of exposing myself remaining, but with no ultimate release.
Nightly stroking under the sheets was curtailed... at Miss Eve’s strong suggestion... though more of a demand. No more soiled bedding, no more encrusted tissues. And my performance improved weekly, when my penis was encouraged to amuse her.
Eve began to measure me. I was growing and recording weekly the length of my penis not only became a ritual of curious pride, but of ownership. The organ was more hers than mine. It was as if she was growing a tree... watering and fertilizing in hopes of a mighty oak.
To her dismay, pubic hair began to forest that which she took delight in laving with a soapy cloth. After a month, the decision was made to shave me. Eve told me the deed was with my mother’s concurrence, but I had no way of confirming that... a subject matter to be broached perilously... and I certainly was not going to contest the grooming of what she owned.
Yes, though singular, our camaraderie grew, she having weekly access to every square inch of my flesh, every week sensing my physical development with every swath of the wash cloth. And I in turn sensed her strength, her physicality, despite the tenderness in caring for me.
Within months, having measured both my penis and the girth of my burgeoning testicles, she one afternoon proposed an additional aspect to our relationship.
“You’re growing Matt. But you need shape,” speaking as I lie in the warm bubble bath, reveling in the glow of having spurted for her... not only on cue but the initial wad arched to the very end of the tub, an accomplishment earning accolades which made me blush.
With her observation she leans back in the stool upon which she sits, always being quite proximate when I am made to exhibit my naked form. Eve hikes up the sleeve of her blouse, uncovering first the forearm then the bicep of a professional wrestler. Huge, untoward for a woman, she smiles in seeing me gawk. Then she flexes, the bicep instantly curling into a massive hillock. My eyes rivet in awe, further amazed when she makes the muscle flutter, alternately relaxing and contracting.
“I’m going to have you join me at the gym, Matt. I’m going to work you, have you perform for me a little differently. It’s for women only, but I know the owner. She’ll let you work out for free if you volunteer to perform a few chores.”
How can I decline?.. more time with the woman I am coming to adore... she who owns, cares and knows so much of me... and my adolescent needs... my male adolescent needs.
Saturday, February 13, 2016
Tie Me Chicago IX
As I sit back, eyes transfixed on the blank computer screen, the image of Eve appears. Always recalled as tall, a head taller than my growing frame. Blonde hair short, her numerous athletic endeavors obviating anything more stylish. Her posture is perfect, transformative years spent in training... gymnastics until her height precluded... later swimming, rowing, there were also stories of special classes in kick boxing, augmenting her aura, further alienating her from possible romantic interludes with boys deeming her to be physically daunting and superior.
The recollections resume where my mind turned off the memory tape, standing in a suds filled bath tub... naked... erect... hands obediently placed on my head.... blushing. Yet there begins the strange joy as surprisingly soft and gentle hands lave. My penis bobs... in celebration? In greeting? In invitation?
Eve laughs... a vengeful laugh? One of mirth? Is she enjoying me... or her new found power?
I want to lower myself into the water, cloak my nakedness in the foam of the scented bubble bath. But then again I don’t. My young mind is conflicted. So I stand and let Eve have her way, sensing the warm softness as her hand works, methodically but caringly, moving a little lower on my torso after each dunk of the wash cloth.
“You’re remaining nicely hard for me,” Eve notes.
Is it a taunt? Does she want me to soften? I just blush even more.
“That means deep within that you enjoy this, Matt. Despite your meanness, your sarcasm, your truculence, you enjoy pleasing and serving women... women like me. You need an authority figure, Matt. You want to be subservient, you just don’t let yourself.”
She lectures, her tone even, somewhat soft.
And her words give rise to thought. My father had died when I was a toddler, barely to be remembered. Initially I was helpful about the house, assisting my grieving mother, amenably performing household chores with little objection. Then came the hormonal changes of puberty. Yes, I discovered myself, down there, and when not stroking, I wished I was able to. Mood swings became quick and considerable. I became Matt the brat.
But now Matt the brat stands totally under the auspices of this woman of strength and determination. And stands naked... and stands erect... and stands relishing her touch... wishing that instead of the humiliation ending... that it continues... that her hand would lave lower. I so much need to be touched. Need to touch myself. Yet my hands remain in place, not to move, not to disobey.
Why?
Reaching to my thighs, the free left hand playfully grasps a large tuft of my right buttock, squeezing firmly. It is a test, I realize, inviting me to protest as her fingers slowly tighten. I do not. I want that and the unspoken message is received. The soapy cloth of the right hand moves to work over my globes. Then there comes a pause as Eve reaches for a bar of soap. My gluteal cleft then becomes the center of attention, Eve smiling as with soap she lubricates between my cheeks. My penis bobs about with fervor.
“I know some things about boys... young or old, Matt. First that there is some nasty stuff that needs to be expelled. And second there’s a special place to be pressed to assure of its riddance. And afterwards, a boy becomes very calm, very docile, very eager to please and be good.”
With her words, I feel the thumb of her left hand press my anus. I am both alarmed and pleased when it slips inwards, the soapiness facilitating penetration. Then I find that indeed Eve knows some things, for the free fingers of the left hand slide forward and grasp my testicles.
I gasp with both the sensation and the sense of placing myself and my developing male organs under the control of a woman.
She diddles and kneads, dropping the wash cloth from her right hand and reaching for the bath tub’s spray hose. Her penetrating thumb begins to caress as well, finding my prostate. With the intensity of the pleasure my knees begin to buckle and there is further tribute to her impressive strength as she holds me up with one arm, my weight shifting to my perineum.
“This is going to feel very good, Matt. So good that I think you’ll want to show off for me... want to offer me that nasty stuff which makes you into a bad boy. But you’ll not spurt until I tell you. Be good. Obey me. It’s best for you.”
With that, Eve turns on the flexible spray hose and adjusts the flow... slight and delightfully warm. She smiles, aiming the spray to douse my pubes, knowing of the ecstasy, knowing of the helpless but wonderful sensation in being penetrated... of having my little balls diddled... by a controlling woman!
When the warm wetness flows, circling about my pubes, avoiding direct contact where I most covet such, something within surrenders. More... please... at my penis tip!
Yes, take me, make me spurt, my mind reeling, silently beseeching. Instead her right hand just applies the spray, maneuvering about up and down, left and right, wetting my modest penis, but never the tip, glaring at my face, judging from my expression where my system is in the slow stultifying process of being masturbated by a spray hose.
“Want to come for me?”
I close my eyes and nod.
“No, no Matt. Open your eyes. It’s important for you to watch, fully understand what I am doing to you... for you. So on the count of three, I want you to thrust forward your hips, clench those little muscles, those used when you pee. And I’ll want you to squirt for me. You’d like that wouldn’t you? Present me with that nasty goo. Give it all to Miss Eve?”
As I nod again, she counts ‘one’. The thumb abrades with more vigor, the fingers squeeze my little balls, the warm spray is now directed at the underside of my upturned penis. It is divine.
Then comes ‘two’ and a teasing pause. I disobey, thrusting with my hips. I cannot help myself.
“No, no Matt, I am in control, you’ll come for me only when I decide.”
There follows an interminable interlude of silence. Finally comes the word ‘three’... and with it the quick withdrawal of her left hand and the misdirection of the spray hose. I am aghast, the pleasurable input summarily curtailed. But I also spew my seed into the bath tub, the mass making a hissing sound as it hits the suds. There comes a second less formidable spurt then a drool of clear viscous fluid.
Eve, now Miss Eve to me, smiles in satisfaction, a look of Schadenfreude in having me masturbated with no penile contact... no direct manipulation. The supporting left hand lowers, allowing me to finally submerse my naked form in the warm soapiness.
I am drained, my young organs giving all. I enter a state of ennui... cleansed, emptied. I have been a source of great entertainment I come to realize, the humiliation intense.
But it feels so good... and Miss Eve knows it feels so good.
“So Matt, you be a good little boy for me. And good little boys get a nice hot bath. Every Friday afternoon.”
Eyes closed, I feel her hand slip under the water, tweaking my nipples.
I am owned.
The recollections resume where my mind turned off the memory tape, standing in a suds filled bath tub... naked... erect... hands obediently placed on my head.... blushing. Yet there begins the strange joy as surprisingly soft and gentle hands lave. My penis bobs... in celebration? In greeting? In invitation?
Eve laughs... a vengeful laugh? One of mirth? Is she enjoying me... or her new found power?
I want to lower myself into the water, cloak my nakedness in the foam of the scented bubble bath. But then again I don’t. My young mind is conflicted. So I stand and let Eve have her way, sensing the warm softness as her hand works, methodically but caringly, moving a little lower on my torso after each dunk of the wash cloth.
“You’re remaining nicely hard for me,” Eve notes.
Is it a taunt? Does she want me to soften? I just blush even more.
“That means deep within that you enjoy this, Matt. Despite your meanness, your sarcasm, your truculence, you enjoy pleasing and serving women... women like me. You need an authority figure, Matt. You want to be subservient, you just don’t let yourself.”
She lectures, her tone even, somewhat soft.
And her words give rise to thought. My father had died when I was a toddler, barely to be remembered. Initially I was helpful about the house, assisting my grieving mother, amenably performing household chores with little objection. Then came the hormonal changes of puberty. Yes, I discovered myself, down there, and when not stroking, I wished I was able to. Mood swings became quick and considerable. I became Matt the brat.
But now Matt the brat stands totally under the auspices of this woman of strength and determination. And stands naked... and stands erect... and stands relishing her touch... wishing that instead of the humiliation ending... that it continues... that her hand would lave lower. I so much need to be touched. Need to touch myself. Yet my hands remain in place, not to move, not to disobey.
Why?
Reaching to my thighs, the free left hand playfully grasps a large tuft of my right buttock, squeezing firmly. It is a test, I realize, inviting me to protest as her fingers slowly tighten. I do not. I want that and the unspoken message is received. The soapy cloth of the right hand moves to work over my globes. Then there comes a pause as Eve reaches for a bar of soap. My gluteal cleft then becomes the center of attention, Eve smiling as with soap she lubricates between my cheeks. My penis bobs about with fervor.
“I know some things about boys... young or old, Matt. First that there is some nasty stuff that needs to be expelled. And second there’s a special place to be pressed to assure of its riddance. And afterwards, a boy becomes very calm, very docile, very eager to please and be good.”
With her words, I feel the thumb of her left hand press my anus. I am both alarmed and pleased when it slips inwards, the soapiness facilitating penetration. Then I find that indeed Eve knows some things, for the free fingers of the left hand slide forward and grasp my testicles.
I gasp with both the sensation and the sense of placing myself and my developing male organs under the control of a woman.
She diddles and kneads, dropping the wash cloth from her right hand and reaching for the bath tub’s spray hose. Her penetrating thumb begins to caress as well, finding my prostate. With the intensity of the pleasure my knees begin to buckle and there is further tribute to her impressive strength as she holds me up with one arm, my weight shifting to my perineum.
“This is going to feel very good, Matt. So good that I think you’ll want to show off for me... want to offer me that nasty stuff which makes you into a bad boy. But you’ll not spurt until I tell you. Be good. Obey me. It’s best for you.”
With that, Eve turns on the flexible spray hose and adjusts the flow... slight and delightfully warm. She smiles, aiming the spray to douse my pubes, knowing of the ecstasy, knowing of the helpless but wonderful sensation in being penetrated... of having my little balls diddled... by a controlling woman!
When the warm wetness flows, circling about my pubes, avoiding direct contact where I most covet such, something within surrenders. More... please... at my penis tip!
Yes, take me, make me spurt, my mind reeling, silently beseeching. Instead her right hand just applies the spray, maneuvering about up and down, left and right, wetting my modest penis, but never the tip, glaring at my face, judging from my expression where my system is in the slow stultifying process of being masturbated by a spray hose.
“Want to come for me?”
I close my eyes and nod.
“No, no Matt. Open your eyes. It’s important for you to watch, fully understand what I am doing to you... for you. So on the count of three, I want you to thrust forward your hips, clench those little muscles, those used when you pee. And I’ll want you to squirt for me. You’d like that wouldn’t you? Present me with that nasty goo. Give it all to Miss Eve?”
As I nod again, she counts ‘one’. The thumb abrades with more vigor, the fingers squeeze my little balls, the warm spray is now directed at the underside of my upturned penis. It is divine.
Then comes ‘two’ and a teasing pause. I disobey, thrusting with my hips. I cannot help myself.
“No, no Matt, I am in control, you’ll come for me only when I decide.”
There follows an interminable interlude of silence. Finally comes the word ‘three’... and with it the quick withdrawal of her left hand and the misdirection of the spray hose. I am aghast, the pleasurable input summarily curtailed. But I also spew my seed into the bath tub, the mass making a hissing sound as it hits the suds. There comes a second less formidable spurt then a drool of clear viscous fluid.
Eve, now Miss Eve to me, smiles in satisfaction, a look of Schadenfreude in having me masturbated with no penile contact... no direct manipulation. The supporting left hand lowers, allowing me to finally submerse my naked form in the warm soapiness.
I am drained, my young organs giving all. I enter a state of ennui... cleansed, emptied. I have been a source of great entertainment I come to realize, the humiliation intense.
But it feels so good... and Miss Eve knows it feels so good.
“So Matt, you be a good little boy for me. And good little boys get a nice hot bath. Every Friday afternoon.”
Eyes closed, I feel her hand slip under the water, tweaking my nipples.
I am owned.
Saturday, February 6, 2016
Tie Me Chicago VIII
Late Saturday morning, having slept in, I find myself returning to the provocative website of Miss Midori Matsumoto. The mystery of the unlabeled link button continues to intrigue. Is the casual viewer supposed to notice? Or is it there only for those apprized of its presence... its possibilities... that with a click of the mouse, Shabari depictions well beyond the artistically erotic, tasteful prints and photographs of the main page will glare forth... filling both the screen and the mind with evidence of feminine power... Miss Midori Matsumoto’s feminine power.
I am to arrive an hour early in Highland Park... having feigned awareness of the need for preparation. It’s curious. I needed not preparation at the Macon County fair. I extended my hand and that began the loss of self esteem... a temporary loss. From that point I was owned, a captive, lengths of rope enveloping both my form and psyche in the culture of ancient Japan.
Though the crowd of brawny farm workers was greatly enthused, I strangely becalmed. Ownership, capitulation, the realization came quickly that I was to succumb to she holding the free end of the rope. I became transfixed, attentive, focused... on she in charge. Bizarre, but the tent became empty... and I eager to perform for she with the power.... to release... conversely to keep me.
So the secret tab is again clicked. I further explore, suddenly realizing that as I scroll there are videos. How could I before miss such?
More clicks and I find that the offerings are teasers, short clips of less than a minute, longer obviously more complete editions for sale... the price considerable. And such is conducive, correlating with the prices commanded for the masterful scenes of beautiful female models. After all, Miss Midori Matsumoto is a Nawashi... an acclaimed Nawashi... her work to be treasured.
I choose a scene. I click. There is a dark studio like room. Over head lights beam to project Miss Midori, attired in tight leather, and a naked young male obediently standing at attention. As the smiling Nawashi begins, reams of rope unraveling, I note that above is a large circle of metal, dangling from more rope of course. It is evident, the lad is to be suspended.
The mastery is also evident, nimbleness, quickness, exacting loops, placed perfectly symmetrical. With the torso encased, strands of hemp strung between the thighs, Miss Midori tugs at a free end in her hand, establishing her control. Her mouth moves, no doubt uttering a command. It is then that I have the wherewithal to reach forth and turn up the sound.
There comes shock. As Miss Midori leads the captive naked male to a stool resting under the large ring, through the speakers of my computer come the sound of voices, murmurs of approval... excitement... enthusiasm. And more shocking, the resonance suggests males... many... there is an audience... just as that observing me at the Macon County fair.
As the camera lens zooms inward, indicating there is also the presence of a photographer, the genitals of the captive male fill the screen... shaven... sizable as expected... and rapidly engorging.
The screen then slowly turns to blank, the teaser ending, and there comes the sound of cheers, indubitably male.
I am apoplectic, staring into the blankness, the mouse held stationary as my homophobia rages. Realization that the priapic young male is to be put on display, made to perform for an audience of men... discerning... appreciative no doubt of the art form... but men! It galls. And I have an 8:00 p.m. appointment!
I need to calm myself. And for some reason thoughts of how many years ago the Amazon Eve trained this truculent boy, relieving him of belligerence, flash back into memory.
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