Saturday, March 26, 2016

Tie Me Chicago XV

“Sit up,” Miss Theresa commands.

Deemed glabrous, I rise from lying where the clinicians have tended to my nakedness, turning to dangle my feet and legs over the sides.

Miss Theresa and Miss Monica stand to my right and left, bottles of mineral oil at the ready. I am massaged, many fingers work to both bring an attractive gleam and search for any unruly follicle escaping the razor.

There is an ingrained reaction, the many years of Miss Eve similarly grazing my nakedness with a soft soapy cloth. Yes I begin to harden, my imagination listening for the count to three.  

It is then that Miss Midori Matsumoyo enters, her splendid form covered in tight black leather.

She casually strolls to stand before me, eyes examining. For some reason I know to remain silent... obediently silent.

“Nicely built, as I expected, good pectorals,” reaching to graze her hand over my oiled right nipple. “My intention was for you to visit, see more of my work, talk a little about your interest, your reaction to my demonstration of Shibari at the county fair. Instead it seems you prefer to immerse yourself.”

Distracted by her beauty, I had not noticed before a sheet of paper in her right hand. She lifts her hand and reads.

“Matthew Donzinger, 556 Michigan Avenue, apartment 13 D. Accounting Manager for Sterling Industries...”

Miss Matsumoto reads from the profile sheet completed in the reception area. In sitting naked before her, my vulnerability becomes dismayingly apparent... and my stupidity. She knows all! Employer name and address, my work phone, name of supervisor. I must have been delirious to divulge so much. 

“Six foot two, 220 pounds, penis of eight inches... confirmed by staff... uncircumcised,” finally completing the litany of information, stuff one does not divulge on the internet these days.

“So... you want to model for me, Matthew Donzinger,” more statement than question. “At least I hope you do. I have patrons expecting a show tonight.... including viewers in Japan. There’s a hole in my schedule I need to fill. Plus I need fresh video material,” handing the profile sheet to Miss Theresa. “What are your intentions? Interest piqued?”

“Will I be hooded... masked?” my question lame, the features of every model on the website fully shown.

As expected Miss Midori simply smiles. It is a sinister smile.

“You need to better understand the art form of Kinbaku, Mr. Matthew Donzinger. For many patrons... most patrons... it is the haji of the kyaputibu which most interests and enthralls. Covering your face, bringing you the comfort of anonymity, would temper that. There are others who wish to see your humbled reaction to josei no pawa. The kutsujoku of submitting to josei no pawa.”

I nod, stupidly, not understanding a word of Japanese other than Kinbaku, learned from the Tie Me Chicago website.

“Your penis is firming, Matt, once again indicating you enjoy the role of kyaputibu... of being my captive.”

It is. All the stress... realizing the woman knows so much about me, denying the comfort of a hood or mask... and my somatic reaction is to become erect! I am shamed.

“You’ve signed the releases. It’s now a simple matter to walk with me down to the studio. From that point, you have no more responsibilities... no more cares. You will be under my power... my control. And I think that excites you. For the evening there is a stipend of $500. Many use the money to reconcile their subconscious... their guilt... that they only subject themselves to the caprice of the Nawashi because of the money. So you may use that to justify your decision. But here at Tie Me Chicago we know better. You have needs, Matthew Donzinger... I can fulfill... I will fulfill.”

She knowingly accepts my silence as concurrence.

“Photo, plug and collar him, Theresa, then post his profile. The customers always like reading about our new kyaputibus. The studio is packed. I need to show him off.”  

Saturday, March 19, 2016

Tie Me Chicago XIV

In finishing the paperwork I look up and realize two imposing women have been standing over me, ostensibly patient but both with hands on hips in a gesture of authority.

“Matt. We’re to prepare you. I’m Miss Theresa, this is Miss Monica,” the woman on the left introduces as she slips the questionnaire from the clipboard.

The clinicians! I assess. Though I am of size and well conditioned, these women, probably older than me in their mid thirties, are of size as well. Dressed in starched white uniforms, feminine shape is difficult to discern. But there is nothing unsightly, nothing to suggest any excess weight, nothing slovenly about their physiques.

Still, it’s their demeanor that more makes the impression. Dressed in uniforms of a different color, one can envision them tending to inmates at a penitentiary.  

“Come with us. Be a good boy. Follow.”

The words! Those of Miss Eve uttered many years ago... to Matt the brat... a soon to be tamed Matt the brat.

This Miss Theresa leads. I follow. A silent Miss Monica follows me.

“Enjoy,” calls out the receptionist, her brief farewell curious as I feel I am going to the gallows.

Through what I presume was designed as the dining room, Miss Theresa leads to the rear of the house. In entering a large chamber, the sense of turn of the century opulence terminates. The room has been converted... it is a salon... tiled floor, lower walls tiled, a steel and Formica massage table in the center, plumbing fixtures, steel cabinets, piles of towels and linen... all for the most part in the color white, the austere presentation notably contrasting the dark paneling and deep red carpeting of the abode. 

“Strip and sit,” Miss Theresa pointing to the massage table.

I pause. Long having left the care of Miss Eve, when stripping for a woman of authority brought thrill, concern in baring myself for unknown women has returned.

“You need to be prepared,” Miss Theresa sternly informs, looking at the completed questionnaire. “Miss Matsumoto is very particular concerning the Saturday evening presentations. Penis of eight inches. Last ejaculated a week ago,” reading aloud from the questionnaire. “You should stand nicely for us... assuming you’ve not been untruthful,” looking to me with a smirk. “So strip!”


I lie stripped naked, baring myself for the two dour clinicians, supine on the rock hard massage table as my entire form is subjected to what is termed preparation. Such includes a confirming measurement of my penis and the removal of hair... every strand... strong depilatory lotion... a straight edged razor for the sensitive pink flesh.   

I find myself hardening, not fazing the women, possibly bringing quirky delight.

This preparation reminds of Miss Eve of course, those Friday afternoons when she battled the onslaught of pubic hair, shaving with caring diligence.

I miss her. Since our separation, I have never developed what one would term normal relations with women. I date, I copulate, yet there is no intimacy. How can one explain that the apex of any sexual encounter for me is when a demanding woman penetrates me anally, diddles then counts to three?

The later years of escapades with Miss Eve, while she attended college and I completed high school, included thrilling yet frustrating lessons in female anatomy. Penis caged in steel, the jock strap was deemed superfluous for my chores in the lady’s locker room. And since my member was no longer considered threatening by those eschewing the male gender, not able to harden in mocking male triumph, I was permitted to gaze all I desired. And I did.

As stated, the women using the facility were young. serious in their exercise. And the resulting forms of pulchritude, one after the other parading from the shower, were breathtaking. Yes, I gawked, and yes they teased, some pointing to the mesh of steel and snickering... female triumph.

Scrubbing the floor one afternoon, the end of a particularly hard workout on a hot day, Miss Eve finished her longer more grueling regimen, strolling by as I scoured. She noted the rivulets of sweat, perspiring despite total nudity.

“You’re too wet to ride in my car, Matt,” peeling off her tee shirt.

I look up. She is sudoriferous as well, her tight sports bra soaked and clinging like wall paper.

“Come, the girls can’t be too upset when your penis is locked up like that,” beckoning for me to rise and follow.

What a glorious end to a demanding afternoon of exercise and chores. To her locker I watched mesmerized as my goddess stripped herself of the soaked gym garb, turned and let my eyes feast. As always the combination of power and perfect shape thrilled, the muscling flawless. I was too transfixed to move an inch as her hand lowered and a grip I know to be both potent and tender enclosed about the scrotal sac beneath the cock cage.

“Come, I’ve bathed you often enough.”

During my tenure at the gym, I was not permitted to shower, riding home with Miss Eve in grimy gym clothes, eager for a hot shower. So I was somewhat excited when, using my balls as a leash, she led to the large open shower area. There I was privileged, for the most part, it was the first time I was to touch her chiseled form.

“I need to be freed... of the cage, Miss Eve,” I confessed in soaping buttocks of granite, feeling my penis swelling and fighting the steel.

As I recall, I was age 17 at the time, hormones raging, barely able to constrain myself between the ritual Friday afternoon bath and masturbation.       

Miss Eve smiled, parting her feet to offer better access to her inner thighs. There was not to be one inch of her flesh denied to my cleansing hands.

“Control, Matt. I have it and you need to learn it.”

Later, cleansed, showered and dressed, I was very disappointed when, in passing the reception desk of the gym, Miss Eve took the key to my cock cage but did not release me, as had been the normal protocol.

“I’ll bring this back later,” she announced to the smiling owner.

The woman of Sapphos laughed knowingly.

“It’s for the best,” was her only comment.

Thereafter, my self control, always questioned, was supplanted by Miss Eve’s control.

Saturday, March 12, 2016

Tie Me Chicago XIII

My thoughts are interrupted when the young receptionist arises from her desk, clipboard and pen in hand.

“Forms, a questionnaire, and a release should you and Miss Matsumoto agree on modeling for us.”

I accept and scan. The top sheet is standard stuff, information required... name address, social security number... for when employing a person. The release also proves to be mundane, similar wording found on the forms of every ski resort... the facility not responsible for bodily harm, etc.

It is the questionnaire which proves to be disconcerting... much personal information... height, weight... ok... but last bowel movement... last ejaculation... penis size!

I look up in alarm. The receptionist anticipates my reaction.

“Oh don’t bother about the penis size. Most men lie and our clinicians will measure any way.”

What am I getting into?

 I read, I write, by rote... and my thoughts return... to Miss Eve.


I grew, not only in height and weight but in muscle tone. Miss Eve proved to be an admirable trainer, a life of athletics plus her college education served me well. We visited the gym regularly.

On Mondays we kick boxed, the rumors proving to be true, and the fears of her male compatriots well founded. For I learned more not only of the woman’s strength and power but her zeal and determination to conquer. It was too often that I was put to the mat. Our brief encounters in the ring attracted the other patrons, jeering with every thud as Miss Eve put me down.

Miss Eve also put me through a workout before every Friday afternoon bath. Yes, though advancing age precluded the need for supervision during my mother’s absence, I innocently suggested to my mother that Eve was a friend, that she visit the house and we work out together, my bath and its nirvanic ending not divulged.

And yes, the sensuous masturbation... penis for the most part untouched... continued... the warm spray... the count to three... the thrust of my hips... the clenching of the small but meaningful muscles... the spurt... on cue... Miss Eve’s sardonic snicker indicating she as thrilled as me with my obedience and discipline. The soothing warmth, the scented water, Miss Eve’s divine touch, all had the effect of a narcotic... I was addicted. And there was no doubt she in turn reveled in her control of the male phallus and its most significant function.

Though achieving the age when for most boys interaction with girls became an attraction, the untoward antics with Miss Eve... older than me by some five years... obviated any desire. There was no normal dating... no movies... no school dances. Succumbing to her, giving myself up at bath time, though only once per week, sufficed. Certainly worth enduring the frustration of self restraint.

As I matured, the gym owner developed concerns. It seems though some gym members were amused by my near naked endeavors in the lady’s locker room, others, presumably daughters of Sapphos like the owner herself, were intimidated. In hindsight, my penis, growing like the rest of me, strained too much the jock strap. The sole garment, outlining what Miss Eve described as a well tamed serpent, came to offer them limited comfort.

So one day in arriving for a workout, the owner took Miss Eve aside, as usual never addressing me.

“If he’s to continue working here, have him put this on,” handing Miss Eve a box. “Make sure it’s locked in place. I’ll keep the key. It will be at the reception area ready for when he leaves.”

In the box was a chastity device... steel... expensive... ineluctable. The woman owner spared no expense in ostensibly protecting her clientele.     

Taking the box, a smiling Miss Eve led me to the locker room, commanding me to strip. She handed me the device, its manner of fit self evident.

“Look at the good side, Matt,” her words coming as I clicked closed the lock. “No one will complain about you watching in the locker room now. You’re effectively neutered while wearing this thing. The girls can’t complain... and you can learn all about the female anatomy.”

Smiling, she reached down and gave the steel mesh penis cage a brisk tug. Yes, ineluctable.

Saturday, March 5, 2016

Tie Me Chicago XII

My sister graduated high school. It was then off to college for her, close enough to be home for major holidays, weekend visits rare. Miss Eve also graduated and decided to matriculate locally, majoring in physical therapy. With required courses in health, biology and anatomy for Miss Eve the Friday afternoon visits became defacto real life laboratory lessons, no part of my nakedness to escape her palpating fingers and examining hands.

With sis well away, my mother’s Friday bridge club occupying her well into the evening, clothing for me was no longer deemed necessary. I was stripped naked before mother’s car left the driveway.

Miss Eve and I would then work out to together, my physical efforts shamefully inadequate... initially. Me in the nude, Miss Eve fully clothed in sweats, she was given to picking me up and lifting me well over her head... with little expended effort, laughing as her display of puissance served as a catalyst for embarrassing but thrilling tumescence. She learned what excited, what aroused, playfully taunting... until it was bath time. Then her handling became more earnest, my continuing obsequious behavior earning the touch of her caring hand... and eventual climax, ejaculating for her further and further into the suds of the bubble bath. 

We became a curious item about town, she at six feet, me a head shorter but gaining. The gym was visited in unison. Showing me various exercises, she indeed worked me. I slowly became buffed and I also learned some anatomy.

The woman owner of the gym held males in disdain, my free use of the facility a favor to Miss Eve, even though chores were required as compensation. One of which was cleaning the women’s locker room.    

And that’s when the owner’s disdain became apparent.

“He’ll look more presentable in his jock strap,” the woman quips to Miss Eve. “If he’s going to traipse about in the lady’s locker room, he can at least offer the girls some entertainment.”

Talking directly to the Lesbian owner prohibited, Miss Eve nods on my behalf.

“And make sure he doesn’t stare. Most of the girls aren’t overly shy, but a gawking male is annoying.”

Miss Eve nods her concurrence, extending her hand palm upwards, with me knowing it is the gesture to dispense with my covering... tee shirt, running shoes, socks and shorts.

Thereafter the protocol was for Miss Eve to put me through the paces... numerous weights, cardiovascular work, calisthenics... strip to my jock strap to cool down... and attack the floor of the lady’s locker room. No mop permitted, bucket and brush, I scrubbed on hands and knees, occasionally glimpsing up, but knowing to never brazenly stare at the patrons in various states of deshabille.

It was tempting. Despite Miss Eve’s Friday afternoon baths, hormones flowed, priapism beckoned. The gym was for the most part used by shapely female athletes, not the social facility of middle aged housewives attempting to shed the detriments of the prior evening’s fudge cake.

On occasion, my uncovered buttocks received a playful pat. Condescending compliments flowed. ‘I should have one of these at home,’ the typical observation.

At times, I was greatly incentivized to face the floor and stay down. Certain girls, no shyness indeed, would exit the shower, in haste a toweled hand busily patting dry uncovered flesh, ignoring my presence but as stated, furthering my anatomical education. I would feel the jock strain with the resulting bulge. Such tempting moments.

Then came the day when Miss Eve cut short her workout, showering while I labored on the locker room floor. In the many months of her tutelage, the protocol was for me to be nude whenever feasible and of course for her not to deign in showing herself, however divinely molded in feminine athleticism. Thus her nudity was not... her body unknown to me.

I glance up, catching her amazingly chiseled femininity, momentarily stare, then immediately realize my transgression and return to my task... too late.

Bunched towel in her left hand, right hand to her hip is a pose of authority, Miss Eve comes to stand over me completely nude. While I feign unawareness, I feel the bulge, my swelling penis to challenge my only garment. Finally she speaks.

“Stare again and I’ll have you working without anything at all, Matt. You can show the girls that unruly penis of yours.”

I want to protest. It is Wednesday, my hormones burgeoning, anticipating our Friday rendevous... my bath... my display... my humbling exhibition of amusing virility.

Peripherally, I can see her calves, incredibly shapely but so toned, so strong. Thighs of tree trunks, but of equal attraction. Dare I shift to view higher? I freeze in concern, my scrubbing hand motionless and betraying my male curiosity. From above, I hear my idol chuckle sardonically.  

“Go ahead and look, Matt. Nearing age fifteen I suppose you need to learn a few things. But if you visually harass the other girls, it will be a long time before I bathe you again. And trust me, that jock strap will be denied. I may even have you work out in the nude. What do you think of that?”

I gulp. But with permission granted, I look up. My awe and admiration are well founded. With the layers of subcutaneous fat of most women limited, Miss Eve is a tigress, a powerful beast with rippling muscles not limited to arms and legs. The abdominals belie her gender. Still, as a male, as a hormone laden hound, my gaze goes to parts pink... fine pink folds of labial flesh peaking past plump labia majora. The breasts protrude firmly, advanced pectoral muscles disguising the depleted fat of mammary glands, nipples of cherry red.

She lets me assess then finally snorts slowly squatting and parting her knees to offer a most salacious unimpeded view of her quim.

“You’re precocious, Matt. You have no clue what you’re looking at, yet you gawk. Better get back to work... and remember my warning.”

Disappointingly, she rights herself. Stepping away, I know to go back to scrubbing, very much in need of my bath.