I’m not sure why, when encountering intervals of duress, the memories of Miss Eve begin to percolate. But there comes much concern... mental and emotional stress... as Miss Theresa guides me to an opposing wall, quite plain in its unmarked whiteness. There I stand, Miss Monica proximate with a very expensive looking digital camera, lens impressive in both length and girth.
“Hands at your sides, face the camera, no smiling,” the commands of Miss Theresa coming by rote.
There come a series of clicks. When Miss Monica nods in satisfaction, Miss Theresa commands again, directing me to turn for profile snapshots of my naked, oiled form. I feel I am to be incarcerated, the poses meticulous, the clicks many.
As I turn again, photos of my backside, then bend for more clicks, then part my cheeks, the photos become more and more explicit. And yes, Miss Eve comes to mind.
As stated we became an item about the local Chicago suburb. Miss Eve would pick me up after school many days per week, driving to the gym where I would disrobe. Workouts were performed in the nude, penis enshrouded in the steel mesh to bring comfort to those followers of Sapphos.
And yes, Miss Eve kept the key... and kept me locked, hormones raging, the craving for Friday afternoons in mom’s bathroom thereafter becoming stronger and stronger. I became oddly proud when permitted to perform for her, my ultimate eruptions at times spurting well beyond the length of the tub... Miss Eve attributing such shows of obeisant virility to her demanding gym work.
Thus my addiction became stronger and stronger as well. There was no teenaged social life... and I wanted no teenaged social life. I was hers.
Then came graduation... high school for me... college for her. Like my sister, I in turn went off to college. Miss Eve found employment, as a physical therapist/trainer, a personal advisor to a wealthy family, the money from what I was told, bountiful.
As stated, in college I learned... really forced myself... to date, mingle with girls in a more conventional manner. But the laving hands, the knowing penetration, the prostate manipulation, the streaming warm water on a stiff penis untouched, the count to three, were... have been... will be... forever etched on my mind... my libido... my warped libido.
I never again saw Miss Eve, never again ejaculated for her, her gentle commanding touch so much missed.
So I find myself standing naked, two authoritative women... the clinicians of Tie Me Chicago... having their way... being photographed most obscenely... most explicitly, like a prisoner. And it brings the memories.
Finally, the photo session ends, Miss Theresa stepping forth, sizable anal plug in one hand a thick strip of padded nylon in the other.
“The plug will ensure you put on a good performance, though from what we’ve seen it probably is not necessary. The collar... for your safety. It’s not within the Kinbaku tradition, but Midori will quickly have it covered.”
It is indeed a neck collar... institutional. As Miss Theresa encircles I find it is high, comfortable and no doubt safe. And most importantly, my throat and the ability to breathe will not be impaired.
“You’re to be suspended. Though the tapes are edited to eight to ten minutes, the attending patrons demand more... and deserve it.”
Next I am plugged... anally... finding that I am not the first the dour woman has impaled. With the abundance of mineral oil, the stout cylinder of black rubber slips inward with embarrassing ease.
It is then that Miss Midori returns, rope in hand. In silence, she ties to my neck collar, uttering the commands to place my hands atop my head, further spurring memories of Miss Eve, and to follow. Again I feel as if being led to the gallows, and again the swelling returns. I am distraught... I am happy... I am excited... I am aroused. And the notion that I understand so little of these conflicting emotions yet women of Miss Eve and Miss Midori’s ilk understand so well... distresses.