Saturday, October 1, 2016

The Arrangement III

“Ms. Juliette wants you hooded again. More visitors.”

She announces the intended adornment as she rinses his body with a gentle spray. The soap from the shaving and cleansing drips to the metal table, collects in the middle then forms a vortex as the cloudy water feeds into a drain.

Sizable wads of cotton are inserted into Chris’s ears. The black latex hood is unfolded and as expected fits tightly. Nurse Ingrid displays her strength in tugging it over Chris’s head. Fingers work to align the single opening with his nostrils and mouth. Blinded and nearly deafened, with his hands immobilized in firm yet comfortable restraint, Chris Bellows’ psyche continues to plummet. But his penis hardens more.

His right hand again reactively tugs against its bond. He so much would like to stroke himself for her.

“There are some men born to be bound and to serve, Mr. Bellows. You’re the essence of

Her firmly enunciated words penetrate both cotton wads and hood, adding to his degradation. While speaking, she playfully taps his nose to illustrate her point. He can do no less then kneel and obediently listen. Does his penis stiffen further?

Then he feels more than hears the click of a leash on an eyelet conveniently welded to the front of the stock. Nurse Ingrid’s muffled instructions can barely be heard. He knows to follow the pulls and to carefully step off the table. It is exercise time and he feels the strange combination of pride, with his Viagra induced erection bobbing about with each footfall, and humiliation, in being led about by a woman, bound and naked on the end of a leash. The tightness caused by the anal plug is both uncomfortable yet pleasant.

Still he reminds himself that the arrangement is his desire. To be kept chaste and controlled... to better structure his life in order to write volumes and volumes of female dominant erotica for the concupiscent women of the world. In pledging his libido as collateral he will produce the most lurid of sexually charged tales. The hormones make such a difference. In his ten weeks of mental servitude and complete chastity he has produced his best work.

Is there a Pulitzer prize for such sordid composition?

He laughs at himself as his feet find the floor and follow the direction of his controlling, white uniformed virago. He knows that the treadmill will test his endurance... along with Nurse Ingrid’s cane bearing hand. He will walk, jog and run at her command. For how long he never knows. But by afternoon’s end he will indeed be well worked. And then he will be counseled. Ms. Juliette insists that the mind is more receptive when the body’s needs have been quenched. But not with the climactic relief of an orgasm. No, Mr. Chris Bellows will merely run and run and run. The Martin Rigid Stock, held high by a pair of ceiling chains connected at his shoulders, will ensure he does not stray or deviate from the task at hand. And crisp applications of a thin length of rattan will ensure a maximum effort.

And his erection will remain.

Ms. Juliette deems the sight pleasing for her and her guests. And Chris Bellows has no idea who the visitors are, how many, of what gender, or what level of interest they find in observing a bound, naked and erect male work under the exacting supervision of a dominant female.

Though the thought intrigues and his imagination wishes to muse, he knows to instead concentrate on his foot work. Stumbling results in scuffed feet and well striped buttocks. Therefore, despite the immobilizing bonds and sensory deprivation, his mind must focus on obedience... on compliance with the whims of the strict woman bearing the agonizing instrument of correction.

After connecting the rigid stock to the chains dangling above the treadmill, Nurse Ingrid straps a heart monitoring device around his chest. Then a rubber bulb is pressed against his lips. A firm hand squeezes his testicles until he opens his mouth to accept the molded object. It completely fills his mouth. A connecting hose will supply air. Electronic equipment will serve to monitor his breathing. There is also a connection to supply water when desired. Chris can push with his tongue and cool liquid will release into his mouth. In his first encounter with the device, thoughts of the local pet store where gerbils drank from bottles came to mind. But he learned to water himself in a short time.

As stated, Nurse Ingrid is relentless. There would be no pause for refreshments. And she can also water him as she chooses. With a press of a button, Chris’s mouth will flood. The only alternative to choking is to obediently swallow. 

A soft rubber clamp forces closed his nostrils. All life sustaining oxygen will be convulsively sucked from Nurse Ingrid’s tube. More control. The nurse regulates the very air he breathes. 

When he feels the canvas of the treadmill move, he obediently steps... and steps and steps. He can feel his engorged penis bob and when he envisions his own humiliation, it further stiffens. He sucks on the tube. He feels oddly thankful for the air.

Is that the sound of laughter?             

It does not matter. His task is to work. Without sight and with limited hearing his thoughts drift. An understanding of his humbled status develops. He is immersed. His air supply is monitored and controlled. The heart monitor announces the level of stress. Nurse Ingrid knows he can be taken further. He knows her learned hand is slowly adjusting the speed... searching for his limits. She will take him there and beyond. Gratefully he is permitted water. But on occasion, without warning, the crisp sound of rattan penetrates the latex hood and the wads of cotton. Then comes the burning pain, searing his cortex like a hot ice pick. The pain spurs his efforts, as intended. New limits will be found. The experienced nurse, reveling in the ‘unusual treatment’, knows better than he does and will extract more than he thinks possible.

His concentration drifts again as perspiration slowly drips to his ankles and moistens the canvas tread. Though the burning sensation from the brisk cane stroke subsides, salt from his own sweat irritates the abrasion, serving as a reminder of the price of indolence. The afternoon will be long and arduous. His mind enters a fog of complete submission. He is a machine with a very strict woman at the controls. His erection stands firmly. Is it the drug...? the stimulation felt by way of the intense humiliation... the reaction to the cane which is so idiosyncratic to the masochist... some latent enjoyment of being naked and bound under the firm hand of a women? Chris Bellows ponders as his feet pound a steady but demanding cadence.

Then there is more laughter. Who? It is the high pitched expression of merriment of a young woman. He is being displayed... putting on a show. He’s a trained circus animal with Nurse Ingrid as the ring master.

Nurse Ingrid presses the button and his thoughts are diverted as cool water fills his mouth. Gratefully, he swallows but she presses again. It floods his mouth and he swallows more. He has no choice. She is in command. He will drink if she wants him to drink.

The afternoon wears on in silent, black solitude. He can feel the treadmill vibrating more than hear its hum and when his own perspiration drips into his eyes he closes them, completely shutting out the paucity of light that breeches the thick latex hood. His sense of touch peaks with the sensation of sweat irritating his welts. And when Nurse Ingrid again applies the cane, the jolt of pain strikes his cortex like a lightening bolt.

It’s an odd form of sensory deprivation. He can walk and ran in place for his demanding nurse and he can occasionally feel his erection touch an extended thigh or thwack his abdomen after a cane induced lurch. And he knows there are others present. Certain high pitched verbal sounds, though not discernible, reach his ears. Is it his paranoia that turns the sounds to feminine laughter?

Nurse Ingrid varies the speed from time to time. Her skills apparently eclipse that of a nurse... week after week building his endurance as would a track coach.

“Good circulation is important for maintaining an erection,” she once lectured him on the second or third visit. “Your’s will become superb.”

He later wondered whether it was the level of his blood pressure or the ability to remain tumefied which would attain such a lofty goal.    

‘Superb,’ he thinks to himself as his feet endlessly thump the continuous circle of canvas. ‘Ms. Juliette wants me to be superb.’

More water is forcibly imbibed, then a firm stroke jolts him from his thoughts. The demanding nurse had slowed him to a jog for a brief respite and now the speed increases. He has learned not to mentally question his handler. She is observing his heart rate and breathing and is more aware of his output and potential then himself. He reacts as his trainer desires. He runs... and with his knees forced higher feels the engorged tip of his penis brush against the shorn flesh of his inner thighs.

The machine’s rotation steadily increases to what he has by now learned is the maximum. Nurse Ingrid will encourage him to meet the challenge with steady, moderate stokes. Not as firm as the corrective strokes, but painful enough keep his attention on the task at hand.

The sound and feel of his breathing seems to override all his usable senses. There are no other noises and the anguish of the cane is partially blocked by his mental reaches for more air. Chris runs at full speed for several minutes. By his estimate one or two minutes longer than he could ever drive himself.

Finally, the treadmill slows. He is walking and can feel perspiration covering every inch of his exposed flash. Water flows and he dutifully gulps. Fingers gently caress the underside of his frenulum. He knows it to be a reward and it indeed feels good. He has not touched himself there in so many weeks and to have the soft fingers of a woman tantalize his overly sensitive organ is exquisite. The high pitched laughter returns. His imagination flashes back to the circus. Who’s finger caresses? It is as if the ring master is letting inquisitive children pet one of the animals.

He is on display.

The machine stops. Chris Bellows stands in a puddle of his own making. Nurse Ingrid releases the chains. The heart monitor is removed. The mouth piece slides out. The leash is once again clipped to the front of the stock. Firm tugs direct him back to the examination table. His feet touch the stool. He knows to step up and kneel.

A heavy spray of cold water causes him to spasm, but is welcome. There is more laughter as his lungs contract and an involuntary throaty gasp is forced from deep within. His ignominious display continues. He is rinsed and cooled before his audience, the servile beast humbly kneeling for his handler.

He could never raise the fortitude to douse himself in such coldness. But bound and naked he has no choice. 

He feels the professionally tender touch of Nurse Ingrid as she pats dry his exposed body with a large fluffy towel. She places him in awkward positions, lifting one bent leg and then the other, ostensibly to dry between thighs, buttocks and around his groin. But he knows it is to more fully expose him to whomever Ms. Juliette has invited for an afternoon’s entertainment.

The nurse has been very discriminating with the application of freezing water. Despite the coldness, he has remained firm. And now in feeling her authoritative hands work with the soft warm towel where his own touch has been denied, the erection returns to full stand.

‘Control,’ he reminds himself. ‘The arrangement was to be controlled.’ 

The leash guides him off the table. He stumbles and earns a crisp stroke. He is indeed under control.

It is time for his ‘counseling’. With the show is over, Nurse Ingrid leads him to the formidable office domain of Ms. Juliette. He feels his erect penis bob in a demeaning farewell gesture to his unknown audience. He is tired. His mind is malleable but his penis remains standing in a lascivious tribute to feminine dominance. Ms. Juliette likes it that way.

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