Visit Three

Visit Three

For some reason I arrive well before 9:30 a.m. again, this time departing early in some orgastic anticipation of stepping down the half flight of stairs to the basement playroom.

Having to wait in my car for the electronic door, my mind mulls last week’s visit, the sole verbal communication being those three words... the only speech exchanged.

In the interim there have been email messages, the first brief in inquiring ‘did you like my taste?’.

Yes, in ending the session, the double dildo withdrew, the boots tapped to the front of the low platform and there came again the sound of slippery moist flesh, this time a plop. Then, while pinching closed my nose, as I drew a breath the bulbous lump of blue rubber was returned to my mouth.

Wet, warm, fragrant with feminine essence, I replied to the email, deciding on a simple ‘yes’ to veil my libidinous zeal.

As instructed in the many messages exchanged I thereafter patiently remained kneeling... buttocks high, knees parted to the extreme, head low... as I again heard the rustle of clothing, the boots going to the stairs. After the kitchen door closed I arose, removed the latex hood, tidied up, dressed and departed, knowing to press the red button for release.

A second email chided me, knees to be further parted, back further arched to better present my sphincter for anal penetration.

‘You will find the pose to not only be demeaning but to better open yourself to me, your balls hang so freely. Plus in stretching and straining the various muscles and ligaments your sense of acquiescence and submission will be enhanced.’   

Yes, the woman enjoys rituals, and as she stated, most importantly I will learn to enjoy yielding to her rituals.

A final email admonished me to tidy things up... rinsing the latex hood, and scrubbing the bench and platform of all bodily fluids. I had done so but apparently not with adequate attention.

‘Future sessions there will be no words, Mr. Long,’ the missive ended. ‘You will come for me with my hand signal, the slap to your buttocks.’

Why do such words bring excitement?

My cell phone indicates it is 9:29. I know to exit my car, forcing myself to take my time, that haste will result in unwanted delay, the electronic lock precisely set for 9:30.

So I look for traffic, saunter across the street, and leisurely traverse the driveway. I cannot help thinking how I am subordinating myself to a device.

Timing perfected, I hear the lock, pull open and descend, the lights clicking on in mid flight.

The room is the same, nothing moved, nothing changed. The bench on the low platform awaiting, the Feeldoe lies at the front end, no post it note, no instructions required.

So I disperse the fee, strip, grab the hood, position myself, slip the tight latex over my head... hands feeling about to take the dildo. In pressing to my mouth I lower my head, part my knees to the maximum. And indeed in sensing the self imposed strain and tension, there does come a curious sense of capitulation, augmented as I arch my back and feel my gluteal cleft yawn open to offer a demanding woman her pleasure.

I am to be taken.

Impossible to delineate time, it seems there is an eternity in wait. I assume it’s because of the stress. Yet I dare not move, dare not relax from the requisite pose. It is a ritual... her ritual... one which I must learn to enjoy in order to please.

Alas, the distant kitchen door opens. Boots tap. The scent of Jean Nate comes... strong... stronger. With the rustle of clothing, I feel my penis twitch. Then the boots tap to my front, the dildo is jostled and I know to release.

More taps, the slight sound of moist flesh yielding to wet rubber. Fingers again lubricate. This time one finger then two fully penetrate. It feels good, the touch welcomed, the twitches bringing firmness. 

The fingers withdraw. A hand cups my testicles, swaying about obscenely I am sure. The tip of the dildo slowly abrades a well greased crevice. Then the gripping hand simultaneously pulls as the dildo plunges... firmly... forcefully. She takes me. There is no hesitation. There is strength. There is determination as despite the tightness, the tip plunges deeply.

I gasp. More embarrassing, I squeal. This brings muffled laughter. Then the fucking begins and I am chagrined to find my penis is untouched... and remains untouched... thrust after thrust.

I need attention. Need to feel the woman’s controlling grip. Yet as the Feeldoe plunges away my erection merely bobs about untended.

Finally I learn of the woman’s intuition. She knows... is aware of the male psyche... the cycle. A single finger of her free hand finds the tip of my turgid erection, hooks at the top and slowly bends downward just as I begin to pull on my oscillating pubo coccygeus muscles, desperate for eruption.

Needing to ejaculate, I cannot. She knows. In place of ecstatic relief, she merely fucks onward... thrusting and thrusting, my sphincter set aflame.   

Drat! Yet this is what I’ve asked for... many weeks of exchanging thoughts. Such frustration... yet such demented thrill.

There comes a soft gasp. The thrusting slows. The hooking finger withdraws. My erection snaps upwards as there comes a slap to my buttocks. It signifies permission. Incredibly I spend, on cue, spurting onto the platform what I must assume to be gobs of white seed.

The dildo withdraws, the boots tap, my nose is pinched and the bulbous lump of blue returns to my mouth. It is hot with friction and I so much welcome the taste.

A tender pat to my hooded head... master to dog... is my reward.

I have pleased. 

Visit Two

Visit Two

It’s a 9:30 a.m. visit. Limited traffic, I arrive early. In heeding the concern about neighbors I know not to stand next to the side door awaiting the electronic lock. So I sit in my car, staring at my cell phone, hopefully the most accurate time piece to be had.

I think about the initial visit, disappointed that there was only talk, a ‘get to know you session’. The woman’s air of authority impressed, the exacting instructions, her calmness as my heart thumped away in surveying her basement... her ‘workroom’.

My needs... my paraphilia she termed it... seem comparatively blase, images of the vast array of devices so blatantly displayed. I wanted to... well... that’s been well discussed. And I console myself that though her commanding presence brought quirky desire, the hour or more meeting required no fee. Curious economic reasoning.

The cell phone screen quietly slips from 9:28 to 9:29. I exit my car, cross the street, eyes focused on the driveway and the side door. I convince myself not to look about, appear not to be lurking, to be burgling as I try the door.

Locked.

With a pause I try again. It opens, my heart again thumping. I make a mental note that it requires not a full minute to cross the street and traverse the driveway.

Down the half flight of stairs, the lights click on, evidently wired to a motion detector.

Though brightly lit, there’s a sense of eeriness in the extreme quiet. Most establishments of sordid activity have innocuous music... like a dentist’s office.

Instructions are followed... clothing removed... fee placed on the cabinet. There lies the latex hood. I grasp and move to the low platform. I mount, tummy to the low bench. Between the waiting wrist cuffs there is a dildo... it’s shape unusual in that at one end it curls upwards, terminating with a ridged bulbous lump. There I spy a post it note.

‘Termed a Feeldoe. Orally take this end. Warm and wet for me.’ the handwriting more like calligraphy.  

It’s light blue, of firm rubber. For some reason my demented mind expected black.

I kneel, tummy on the bench, buttocks high, parting my knees. I slip on the latex, aligning the opening for my mouth and nose, assuring that when sightless I can locate the rubber phallus. The pose is awkward. In taking the bulbous end of the dildo I must shift about, doing my best to keep my head low with the male end of the dildo protruding. I find I must open my mouth to the extreme, the many ridges of the plump end abrading my tongue.

While I calm myself in wait, it begins to happen. With my testicles swaying about between parted thighs, the sense of self induced exposure and helplessness bring twinges. I am exhibited like piece of artwork. I begin to firm. Thoughts of the handsome woman of color and what I am yielding to her bring arousal. More stimulation comes with the unknown.

When?       

5 minutes, 10, 15?

Is this a sham? I tire, the pose bringing strain.

Finally I hear a door... footsteps. I remain motionless... silent. To be obeisant in the woman’s presence seems... natural. No commands... no instructions... I just kneel in wait.

The footsteps near. There comes a waft of Jean Nate. I lurch as hands touch, pushing at my thighs for further separation... at the small of my back... more arch... a higher pose. It’s ungainly, I struggle. But for some reason I want to comply... to obey... to please.

And with the woman’s authoritative prodding, I feel myself firm more. Penis untouched... a solid erection is achieved. And to complete the sense of thorough capitulation, a hand cups then playfully jostles my balls. Do I hear suppressed laughter?

The footsteps retreat. I hear the rustle of clothing. Yet the sound of boots returns. She has disrobed but her foot attire remain. Such a commanding image! I curse the hood, there is need to gaze at her sublime form... the muscling bringing intrigue.

The Feeldoe quakes, a hand gesturing for me to release my oral grip. I open. It slips out. I then hear wet rubber greeting moist flesh. Is that a sigh?

The boots move to my rear. For some reason though pushed to the limit, I press further apart my knees. Curve further my back. The woman is exacting... demands me to be exacting.

Then come fingers at my gluteal cleft. Up, down, a coolness is applied. Lubricant! Smoothed generously about.

I gulp. Then I feel the tip of the dildo... gently... gently... firmly... it thrusts. I cry out.

Why? This is what I want. This is my paraphilia. The object of much discussion... many messages exchanged.

Still comes the humiliation. I am being fucked... sodomized by a woman!

My penis throbs, the prostate gland celebrating the attention yet denying the joy.

In... out... in... out. I’d so much like to watch. Instead I must merely listen to the slight, repressed sounds of feminine pleasure... the frictioning of rubber against my puckered aperture.

Am I enjoying this?   

Then comes panic. Are others watching? Is the ultimate in male submission being filmed... recorded?

I will not know... cannot know.

A hand reaches to grasp my scrotum. Leverage, pulling back as the dildo thrusts forward. Yes. more control, more humiliation. Hands remaining free, why do I not resist, object, fight, tear off the hood? Step off the platform! Protest! Depart!

But deep within I accommodate, strangely hoping that I am pleasing.

Then the free hand grasps an organ I imagine to be firmed to steel. Expecting a pleasant stroke, instead the rock hardness is slowly and inexorably bent downward toward the platform. I hurts, it aggravates, but my penis remains incredibly firm, yielding to the woman’s grip, the angle agonizing.

More thrusts, more sighs, my erection wavers not and I am chagrined to work my sphincter open as best I can then squeeze to close in a well timed gesture, maximizing the joyous tremors on her end of the double dildo.

Finally comes a muffled shriek. The gripped penis is released, and most significantly the silence ends.

“Come for me!” the free hand firmly slapping my right buttock.

It’s a command... and in abject obedience I feel myself erupt... untouched.  

'Visits' published

I have published the referenced story on Lulu.

10,700 words. $3.50.

There will be more weekly snippets posted here on the blog.

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/visits/23152418

Literotica

Attempted to post ‘Visits’ on a site termed ‘Literotica ‘ and received this rejection notice... 

Dear Writer,

Thank you for your submission to Literotica. We appreciate the time and effort you've taken to write a story and submit it to our site. However, we've found that we cannot post your submission in its current form. The checklist below may help you in re-examining your manuscript.

    Were there URL links, site addresses, or other advertisements within the story?
    We don't publish partial works as "teasers".

In the preamble to the story I referenced this blog which is apparently verboten.

So what the editor considers to be a teaser I consider 'giving to get' and building a brand name, so to speak.

Thus I now understand why the site is such a vast repository of poorly written stuff. If you’re a professional writer and wish to draw attention to your efforts, it can’t be done there. 

I've tried and tried to find on Literotica a story worthy of the time to read and consistently fail. 

Any readers find good stuff there?

Visit One

New story to keep you readers entertained. Not sure where it will be going.

Enjoy.

*************************************************************

Visit One

“My listing is intentionally vague, Mr. Long, for apparent reasons. So we’ll need to talk explicitly, to assure both of us that the services envisioned are... ah... within the spectrum of your paraphilia.”

I am surprised by both the erudite vocabulary and the diction. The listing suggested services for gentlemen with a fantasy about control... yielding... or words to that effect. I was intrigued enough to reply. Messages were exchanged and things became more specific. And now here I sit in the livingroom of this well spoken and apparently well educated woman of color.

Mainly I listen. After all it’s about control... ceding it.

“So you’re aged 32, single, work as a engineer. That’s good... a very exacting field.... and I like  men who understand being exact,” the word given very specific and forceful enunciation.   

I nod, taking in the woman’s features, somewhat awed by her presence. At some forty plus years, the stunning beauty of youth has left her... somewhat. But left her in a manner such that in place of gawking to distraction there is instead admiration for handsomeness, a focus on her savoir faire, her intelligence. There is limited make up... such is needed not. And she wears a certain scent, a perfume which becomes but not overwhelms, diffusing a feeling of hominess.

And there is the athleticism. Wearing a loose white blouse and plain dark blue skirt, her physique is not apparent. And I convince myself that such is intentional. For in glancing at the gams, calve muscles well formed suggest exercise. And with slight motions of her hands, the sleeves of her blouse momentarily retreat to reveal arms of substance. Overall, I suppose it’s the hair style that leads to the summation... short, easily washed and combed out after a strenuous work out... or other form of exertion.    

“I like your perfume,” instantly regretting the interruption in what can be perceived as a non sequitur.

She smiles, not flustered in her calm confidence.

“It’s an old scent, Mr. Long. Jean Nate. But one becomes comfortable with... guess you’d say... a daily regimen.” 

Brand name recalled, I am about to blurt that my mother wore the same, then catch myself in realizing such an intended compliment could be deemed unchivalrous.

“So come with me, Mr. Long. More specifics.”

She arises... gracefully but not daintily. Clipboard in hand with my curriculum vitae, she strolls from the livingroom. I follow through the diningroom to the kitchen. All is neat and impressively orderly, hinting at a military background. She pauses at a set of stairs and points downward.

“Future visits you will enter that side door. Don’t be early... don’t be late. The electronic lock will be set to allow entrance at the exact time of your appointment, releasing the door for thirty seconds. Don’t come too early and skulk about either... I have neighbors...”

Halfway down the stairs, there is a landing with the referenced door. It’s thick and sturdy. A sizable metal box attached at the top, most likely magnetized, has wires leading to a timer. There’s a red button to the side, imprinted with the word ‘exit'.

“In entering you will go down to the basement. The kitchen door at the top will be closed and locked to you.”

From the landing we continue to descend to the basement. There the woman flips a switch illuminating a chamber. The walls are of pure white, the gray flooring tiled. Expecting a dark and foreboding dungeon, I am surprised, my reaction apparently showing as the woman pauses to allow me to assess.

In the middle there is a short bench like apparatus mounted on a low platform. I glance, my eyes quickly diverting to the wall to the left. There is an array of instruments of correction... whips, crops, tawses, paddles... some not before seen and therefore unnamed. On the wall ahead hang all types of restraint gear... for the wrists, ankles, neck... and made of various materials... steel, leather, nylon. There are even medieval appearing wrought iron shackles, one set connecting the neck and limbs by a single chain configuration. Such is ancient, a museum piece.

“A role desired by many, Mr. Long... to become the naked and chained slave of a black woman. It’s a replica I had forged by a blacksmith based on a very old photo from a southern plantation. Very heavy. Putting a man in that and working him on the treadmill can bring... ah... let’s term it a certain thrill.”    

“No cotton fields?” my sardonic question meekly postulated.

“It does bring fantasy, doesn’t it? Perhaps someday I’ll purchase some land... I’d certainly have no shortage of field hands... would I?”

I smile, I suppose my deviant thoughts not well veiled, as I look to the wall on the right. Medical paraphernalia... hoses, nozzles, catheters... along with cabinets I imagine to be littered with similar stuff.

“Shave your pubes before every visit... thoroughly. You’ll disrobe for me completely. Fold your clothing and leave here along with my fee,” the woman stepping to a low cabinet. “And waiting here will be this hood,” taking from the wall an expanse of black latex.

Hands deftly unfold and demonstrate a single large opening.

“For your nose and mouth. But before putting it on, do move to mount the platform, tummy on the bench,” stepping to that in the middle of the chamber... which my eyes have squeamishly avoided inspecting. “Kneel, tummy here, buttocks high, knees widely parted, forehead low to the platform... after you’ve donned this,” the woman offering a rare smile as she holds up the thick hood. “And resting on the platform will be the dildo of my choice. After hooding yourself you will wait for me with the dildo in your mouth.”    
    
To the front of the apparatus, left and right, there rest cuffs for the wrists. To the rear are similar cuffs... for the ankles.

“Do you prefer to be bound, Mr. Long? Or can you obediently kneel and cede in offering a woman her pleasure?”

For some reason I cannot come to reply.

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we? But remember, Mr. Long... exacting. Buttocks as high as possible, forehead low to the platform, knees parted to the extreme. I like rituals. You will learn my rituals. And most importantly you will learn to enjoy yielding to my rituals.”

Should I ask about the ultimate ending?

I decide such would be too crass an inquiry... and in a way seeking to top.

“This is the last time you will see me, Mr. Long. Henceforth you will only feel the presence of the person in control.”

New short story

Look Saturday July 14 for the beginning of a new short story.

Monthly special for July

Through July 31, 'The Power of Money' will be available for $2.50  (regular price $6.50).

Female Dominant, male submissive, 47,900 words

http://www.lulu.com/shop/chris-bellows/the-power-of-money/ebook/product-21856943.html

Synopsis...

Masochist Robert Gibson owes money to the nefarious loan shark Rocco Logatelli. He cannot pay. But the wealthy woman of Dominance Madame Monique du Fouet Kensington can help. Yet at what price? It seems Madame is a collector... of males. This is an extreme story, typical of Chris Bellows. Not for the novitiate reader of D/s erotica.

If enjoyable there is a short sequel available, 'A Dog's Life'.

CB