The Trophy, Segment Eight

Merry Christmas everyone!

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To the bedroom, an erect Arlen Jacobs Casperson visits the bathroom. Nurse Grayson disrobes, shunning her stunning evening dress and all else, then moving to the cage in complete deshabille. Mrs. Casperson gazes in silence as her bindings are checked... the ends of the Martin Rigid Stock, the ankle shackles, the short tight cables restricting the motion of her chastity belt and hips.

Peering at the bronzed woman of authority, Mrs. Casperson finds envy. Though Joan Grayson is some ten years her senior, she is fit... attractive in an athletic way... seemingly prepared to run a marathon... engage in any number of athletic pursuits. She exudes confidence. The woman is handsome... and she knows it... comfortable in her role as keeper and caregiver.

In contrast, the lady of the house senses self disgust. There’s the extra twenty five pounds... the shaven head... the missing eyebrows... the nipples grotesquely forced into the shape of darts.

Further assessing, Mrs. Casperson notes the breasts are of size... not large but certainly not small. Between thighs of stone, a trimmed mons reveals reddish brown outer labia yielding to flashes of inner pink as the woman moves about. Above, Mrs. Casperson is amazed to note rippling abdominal muscles, indeed the woman exercises with fervor. 

The extensive conditioning has fashioned a feminine figure built for unending copulation. Mrs. Casperson knows, the head end of her cage intentionally positioned such that the grunts, groans shrieks and sighs of love making are within arms reach, should her wrists ever be freed.

“I’ll hood you in a while. It’s Mr. Casperson’s orders that you watch,” the nurse reminds, positioning on the top of the cage the thick black cloth left behind by maid Maria.

The master of the house exits the bathroom. With the thoughts of carnal pursuits, the front of his bathrobe tented by an erection undiminished. He looks at his caged and well bound wife and smiles wickedly. To the bed he positions himself on his back, opening his robe, libidinously beckoning for Mrs. Grayson to join him.

Vulnerable, completely helpless, Mrs. Casperson dares not protest. There is nothing she can do. Even in closing her eyes she will hear... even smell the prospective lovemaking.

When Mrs. Grayson turns, stepping onto the nearby bed, there comes more envy, nicely shaped buttocks, seemingly chiseled, propel her into position. 

Straddling the supine Master of the house, she smiles, grasping the mammoth male organ and aligning with her quim then slowly lowering to bring a sigh of delight. Yes, she rides on top... night after night of love making, her muscled form working and working, draining Master Arlen of all he can offer. Tomorrow morning a mocking master of the house will describe for his chastised wife every thrust, every squeeze of his lover’s thighs, every oscillation of vaginal walls honed to deplete the penis of all male essence.

At least that is how the narration will seem. 

It’s bizarre watching the lustful interaction upside down. As Mr. Casperson frequently teases... ‘if you’d like better viewing I’ll have Mrs. Grayson accommodate you. But you’ll not sleep as well kneeling upright.’

‘Why like this? Why is this happening?’ a dispirited Mrs. Casperson asks herself. But then the provocative questions of Mrs. Grayson come to mind... why do you let him do this?.. why do you want him to do this?