A Trained Penis II

“And now you’re limp,” Molly mockingly points out. “Sore? Did I get the lotion on in time?”

In the kitchen of my friend George’s old farm house I sit, chagrined and well worn.

Molly’s ankle shackles proved to be exhausting. Not so much the weight, which was felt, but the fact that during the return trek from the ridge, the short chain afforded the most limited of steps. So as Molly strolled freely, her long down hill strides quick and effortless, I had to shuffle, rapidly pressing forward my bare feet at more than twice her rate of pace. She giggled like a school girl, turning her head to view my male package as it flopped about most comically.

And yes the sun tan lotion was timely applied, no sun burn. But Molly’s nimble fingers worked the lotion with fervor, my erection gleefully standing in salute. Finally came the command.

“Let me know when you’re going to spurt for me,” her voice low and sultry.

Well, with all the thrill... naked, collared and leashed under the auspices of this playful yet controlling woman... it took not many strokes before I nodded.

With that, my playful friend turned wicked, withdrawing her hand and retrieving her digital camera. Unbeknownst to me, the video mode was preset.

Yes, she filmed the ruined orgasm, my neglected penis throbbing in need. With wrists remaining cuffed behind my back, my jism meekly oozed as I pulled mightily with my PC muscles in attempting to bring the ecstasy of normal ejaculation, my masturbating right hand struggling against its bond.

Was it the frustration or her laughter which most annoyed?

“Guess it’s time to take off the cuffs. Get a shower.”

“I’ll decide that,” Molly warmly apprizes. “It may be your fantasy... your game.... but I’ll make the rules.”

Having spent my load, hormone levels reset, for some reason her authoritative words don’t have the affect of arousal. Then it dawns, whereas I’ve had my jollies, in crass terms, Molly has graciously played along, sans any release for her. She is in need.

“Well, I can offer more attention without the cuffs and shackles.”

“You shot your load. Take a rest.”

“It really wasn’t shot, Molly. Just kind of oozed. Not very gratifying. I’ll reload while cooking dinner for you,” turning and pressing forth my restrained hands in seeking release.

“No. I’ll feed you. Then I have a dinner date... in Saratoga. An old friend from nursing school. You’d be welcome to join us except you only have a tank top, gym shorts and sandals. They won’t serve you in a good restaurant. Really Jack, you could have at least packed underwear.”

“That’s not kinky.”

“Not practical either,” Molly stepping out of the kitchen.

My quest for emancipation ignored, I sit on a kitchen chair, the quirky delight of bondage slowly transforming to exasperation. Then Molly returns, the few garments I wore on the drive from New York in her hand.

“You want kinky, you’re going to get kinky,” smirking in grabbing the car keys from the counter.

Helpless to intervene, Molly marches out the back door. I hear a click and then the slam of the car trunk. When she returns, her march seemingly triumphant, there are no clothes, no keys.

“No clothing. And the keys are well hidden in the yard, should you manage to exit the house to search.”

Standing arms akimbo, my beautiful Molly suddenly seems imposing. It’s that smile... Schadenfreude it’s termed.

“I’ll boil you some oatmeal. Then I need to change for dinner. Oscar’s, if you remember, is an expensive place... so I’ll take your credit card with me.”