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.

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