The Trophy, Segment Four

Glancing downward to see his trousers tented, Arlen Jacobs Casperson feels like a horny pubescent school boy. Such delightful viewing. The frustration of his naked wife both amuses and excites.

For now, remaining secured to the granite platform, the dark brown expert hand of Nurse Grayson applies a feather, ever so evanescently grazing the inner labia, the color of the bright red flushed flesh deepening. There is moisture, further evidencing the arousal... and the need. The right hand and fingers work to stroke, stroke, stroke. Slowly... endlessly.

Master Arlen presses the remote to turn up the volume, the pleaful moans enhancing his enjoyment. He presses again, splitting the screen. To the left side, camera number one focuses on the bald head and face.... camera number three continuing to light up the screen with an exhibition of intimate feminine anatomy. 

He notes the clitoris has grown to enormity. Vaginal essence flows in abundance. When the feather moves downward, now plying the teasing pleasure to the engorged pearl, a dark brown middle finger of the left hand slips inward. Arlen Jacob Casperson knows it assesses... feeling the pounding circulation of the aroused Mrs. Casperson by way of her vaginal walls. The nurse knows that with the slightest sense of oscillation.... signaling pending climax... the feather and finger will be abruptly withdrawn.

No full orgasms! Ever! It is a dictate of the master of the house. His trophy wife to always be kept on the edge, her only full pleasure to exhibit herself... and to view his pleasure.

His view changes to the face. It contorts. Eyes clenched, mouth open. An unwitting viewer would assume the woman is being spanked, perhaps whipped... not enduring the faint unending pleasure of a feather.

Alas it comes. With the spread thighs quivering, the feathering stops, the penetrating finger instantly withdraws. There comes a scream.

“No! Please! More! You can’t leave me like this.”

“Oh, but I can... and I will. Your master’s orders.”

Master Arlen presses the remote. The lens of camera three zooms outward, the right side of the screen displaying the full body from behind. As Mrs. Grayson steps to the sink, there is again an unimpeded view. A weak, further exhausted Mrs. Casperson struggles to remain kneeling in place, her hips bucking, mimicking copulation, trying desperately to complete the lustful deed.

It is for naught. And the futile efforts bring a devious smile.

Mrs. Grayson returns, cleaned dildos, cleaned chastity device, placing the instruments on the platform between the parted feet.

Knowing she must let the glow of unfinished masturbation fade, a finger first lubricates the anus, supple and remaining moist from the many enemas.

“Press yourself open for me. Be a good girl. Your husband returns,” she mocks, reminding that the phalli replicate the impressive organ of the Master of the house. 

Mrs. Casperson knows to obey, knows she is to be returned to unending chastity. In being so thoroughly bound, there can be no resistance. She is to bear whatever master husband Arlen demands. Thus she presses, knowing that in being so well cleansed, colon empty, her rose bud will accept the impaling cone of rubber without mishap. And indeed, it slips inward... with embarrassing ease.

Nurse Grayson knows to pause, letting the steamy loins further cool, the broiling hormone levels rebalance, the endocrine system settle in disappointment.  

Finally the second impalement is pressed to the mons, the tip rubbing up and down, the yawning opening welcoming the dildo’s return. It likewise glides inward with ease.

The foam lined belt of steel encircles the waist. The triangular cod piece is connected. Pressed to the gluteal cleft then locked in place at the small of the back, the stuffed portals, vagina and anus, will be forced to sense her Master’s faux penises.

“All secured... all locked up... you must feel nicely kept. Deep within, it warms does it not?” Nurse Grayson derides. “It is best for girls like you. You feel safe in being owned... made to perform,” a comforting hand smoothing over the buttocks.

The uniformed nurse steps to the front, smoothing her hand again, now over the bald head.

“You’re fortunate with your husband’s mastery. There are those who are caned and whipped. I’ve treated many welts over the years.

“Some food... oatmeal with butter and cream... and then a nice nap. But first, something your Master wishes you to endure for him.”

From a cabinet come a set of tongs and a pair of balloon-like cones, appearing to be of thin red rubber. The diameter the size of her pinky finger, Mrs. Casperson notes they are open on each end.

“We’re going to be stretching your nipples. Initially uncomfortable, in time you’ll adapt. Think of the sensation as your husband graciously suckling you.” 
  
Mrs. Casperson shudders as cone of rubber number one is slipped over the tongs. How can her perfectly shaped nicely rounded nipples fit into a strip of confining rubber shaped like that?

 She learns. The tongs are pried open, stretching the rubber. Next gripping her right aureola, the cone is rolled over the pink flesh. Then the tongs are slipped away leaving the rubber in place to squeeze firmly, reshaping the nipple into a dart, the very tip protruding past the open end.

Mrs. Casperson gasps. There is discomfort, yes. But the grotesque shape is of more consequence.

“Why?” comes the pitiful question as the left breast receives equal attention.

Nurse Grayson silently completes the deed, bringing a second gasp. She smiles in seeing tears form. 

“Because he can,” the reply coming as index fingers left and right ever so slightly diddle the exposed tips, empurpled and prominent.

The gentle toying counters the distress of the gripping sensation. Mrs. Casperson is chagrined to find the woman’s touch is welcomed... chagrined as well that Nurse Grayson is so well aware.