A Trained Penis III

Within hours the kink returns... at least thoughts of quirkiness return. No television, no radio, no music, Molly left me in the small farm house, partially restored by friend George but lacking many of the entertaining diversions of my New York apartment. In turning off all the lights, I am in darkness and the thoughts percolate.

How much has Molly planned and how much of her afternoon antics were spontaneous? Having ankle shackles stowed in her bag certainly required forethought. And whereas normally, even when cuffed, I could somehow squirm about and turn on some lights, Molly produced a longer chain before departing. Where did that come from?

Yes, my hobbled feet are further restrained, right ankle cuff secured to an antique radiator in the living room.

So how much have my warped desires awakened something within Molly? Restraining me with so little room to maneuver isn’t part of my thing... whatever that is.  

And who is the friend joining Molly for dinner? Despite my nervous cross examination, calling out to her as she prettified herself in the bathroom, nothing was divulged.

Then there’s that look as she spoon fed me the bland oatmeal... something I have not eaten since childhood. She seemed to enjoy my helplessness, pinching and squeezing my right nipple when I stubbornly refused more spoonfuls. More Schadenfreude.

In the darkness, the quiet, no sounds other than the serenade of frogs and insects, I ruminate on some foreboding comments. During my feeding, Molly was insistent that I describe my feelings when she withdrew her stroking hand, the sunny afternoon of CFNM ending so... so... ruefully I suppose is the word.

Ruefully for me any way, as I recall Molly gleefully capturing my frustration with the camera.

“It... it... felt... well like something good was about to happen... but didn’t.”

“Like a sneeze?” Molly inquired. “One that just doesn’t come?”

“Yes,” amazed that she could so adequately describe the combination of pending ecstasy and disappointment.

“Suppose it was your last, Jack?” her tone quite plain... innocuous.

At that point I paused, pretending to masticate the horrid oatmeal, gathering thoughts.

What was Molly inferring?

“How would you feel about that... your last orgasm meekly drooling to the soil,” the words further stimulating... stimulating something within.

“Why would it be my last?” finally finding a response.

“Answering a question with a question.... tsk, tsk.”

With that, bowl of blandness consumed, she snickered and arose from the table, washing, rinsing, then departing for the bathroom.

My reflections become unfocussed as nature calls. And of course the bathroom cannot be reached. I had not given that a thought while Molly was chaining me to the radiator. So now the boredom shifts to panicking thoughts... soiling the carpet of my good friend George. Curious how given a specific time, one can manage to somewhat relax and hold. But given the unknown... at what time Molly will return and release me... significantly increases the concern of embarrassing oneself.

The urge increases and I make the mistake of standing. The weight shift seems to further press my bladder and the need becomes dire. In the moon lit living room I spy a decorative bowl filled with fake fruit resting on a low coffee table. It will have to do. I am gladdened to find I have enough slack on the chain. I position and release, splattering the faux fruit, chagrined in knowing Molly will be miffed. Still the release is most welcomed and I am heartened with the realization that, upon Molly’s return, I will finally be freed from bondage in order to clean up my excretions.