Visit Seven

This is the last snippet from 'Visits'

Do keep in mind the entire story is available at... 

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

Visit Seven

‘You spent copiously, Mr. Long. Two weeks under a woman’s control and you performed nicely. I must wonder what you’d discharge for me after three weeks of denial. Shall we find out?’

The teasing email comes on Tuesday. And though the words taunt and should bring irritation, there remains some degree of complacency. As a result of being drained, three days later my libido has not completely been restored. The glow remains. Though I remained hooded, I must assume the woman is correct, for I sensed the explosions, my rock hard penis firing like a cannon I am sure.

After standing upright, leash tight, neck strained, for what seemed like an hour, there came the sound of a door. And I was heartened to hear the boots thumping on whatever wooden stage I was posed upon, my nose detecting Jean Nate.

It seemed that my swelling penis pressed against its confinement even harder, though I am sure the sensation was psychosomatic. And when there came the click of the lock, the penis cage slipping away, my manly plums pressed through the control ring, I pleased her, throbbing appendage rising to stand at obedient attention.

The leash was tightened, almost to the point of being hung and this of course abetted the tumescence. Then one hand lifted my restrained hands and wrists, bending me over and further stressing my neck and spinal cord. A booted foot pushed apart my feet. A greased finger worked my gluteal cleft, finding my sphincter and lubricating with aplomb.

And then she entered me, one digit, then two, then three. Fingers rummaging about deep within, the woman deftly found my prostate, that normally kneaded with her Feeldoe.

It felt ecstatic... two weeks of neglect ending... my erection waggling about in celebration.

I have read about the so termed hangman’s dance, tension on the neck and spinal cord fostering the curious somatic reaction of erection. And the woman seemed to know this, holding up my cuffed wrists, bending me over to assure utmost tautness.

It felt so good... so welcomed. Yet there I was perched naked and bound on what seemed to be a stage, my untouched penis stabbing the summer air.

Who was watching? Who could see? Outdoors, breezes wafting over oiled defoliated skin... normally such would feel so good. There came stressful thoughts of concern. Yet my need trumped my mental distress.

Yes, such concerns seemed so distant with the amazing manipulation of my gland.

Nothing touched my erection... primed yet frustratingly left without friction... no fingers, no hand, no tongue or lips, and certainly no vaginal warmth and smoothness. I am learning such is the ritual. The prostate manipulation seemed unending. And finally the hand released my wrists and there came the slap to my buttocks.

Yes, fingers within began a more gentle circling motion and I exploded... again on cue... again at the behest of a controlling woman... to please her... to show off... to display myself... my vanquished maleness... my libido hers to govern... the joy welcomed but incomplete as the rush of hormones brought quick repose.

Why do I so much enjoy this? 

‘I have needs, Ma’am,’ my reply disgustingly humble.

‘And such are to be addressed, Mr. Long... at my whim. I needed my playroom for a quick session with an unruly husband. The wife believes in immediate discipline for transgressions, and I caned him prospectively. Thus the diversion and the need to have you wait for me... hooded and bound naked and outdoors. A little too thrilling for you, Mr. Long? Or are we to add exhibitionism to your sick fantasies?’

I read, not knowing how or what to reply.

‘No response? Silence means consent, Mr. Long. See you Saturday. 9:30. Consider leaving your car naked. Dashing across the street wearing nothing more than a steel cockcage will put you in the right frame of mind, I’m sure. And I’ll have a reward for you.’

Reward! Yes, the notion of a reward excites. For I remain locked up. After the boots and scent of Jean Nate departed, the woman’s assistant returned to the stage placed me back in chastity, releasing my leash and leading back into the basement, there to kneel and restore energy after a mental, emotional and physically exhausting ordeal. Wrists uncuffed, with his/her departure, I knew to remove my hood, dress and leave.

‘Yes Ma’am,’ my reply delayed, my mind distracted in envisioning the reward.

*****

I am jittery but able to control the car. Is it the hormonal buildup? Or the prospect of trotting about the woman’s neighborhood wearing only a mass of steel at my pubes?

Will I do it?

Early again, instead or parking and waiting the few minutes until 9:30, I drive around the block, pondering the consequences of being caught. With my penis covered can I still be charged with indecent exposure? And the thought returns... how does the woman know whether I enter and descend the stairs dressed or naked?

There must be hidden cameras, I conclude. The woman is in earnest and would not tempt with a reward unless I have been truly deserving.

At 9:25, I turn again onto the street of my destination, roll to the front of the house and kill the engine.

Decision time!

I grudgingly kick off my shoes. I take a deep breath. I slip off my tee shirt. I check the mirror. No traffic. I check the phone. 9:28. I remove the woman’s fee from the pocket of my shorts, certainly not to leave that behind. Then 9:29 flashes. I am tempted to begin the short but emotionally long journey when it dawns that since I will be running, arriving at the door early will be counterproductive.

So I wait. It is a long minute. I use the time to shimmy about and push the gym shorts to my ankles, the leather seat cool despite the summer heat.

9:30. I push open the car door, stepping from my shorts. Presciently I pick up the garb before my
trek. ‘Dashing’, the woman suggested. And dash I do. In crossing the street, somewhat stumbling in bare feet, I both feel and hear my cockcage bouncing about. With a week’s stubble, the follicles bring annoying pinching. This fosters a contrasting need... to be shaven. Yet I know it will only happen under the humiliating auspices of another... gender of the hands and fingers unknown. 

I find that the morning air wafting over my nudity feels good, but I put aside the distraction focusing on the door. Thirty seconds until it relocks. I have my shorts as backup. I can leave if my timing is off. But what of my reward?.. the need for release... to be penetrated... to yield and be drained of this hormonal glut.

I grip, I turn, I pull. I open. Timing superb.

*****

Hooded I kneel... thighs well parted, buttocks high, head down... and I feel sanguine, mouth gleefully cradling the woman’s end of her double dildo.

I am to be fucked! Anally sodomized. I sense the powerful thrusts, heart thumping in anticipation.

The kitchen door opens. Alas, soft footsteps! Such near. My wrists and ankles are secured.  Waters runs, drawers are opened and closed. I am heartened when fingers work about my steel enclosure. The lock clicks open, the mesh slid away. Fingers work my balls pressing through the tight circle of metal.

No ice! My penis celebrates. But should it? Man or woman? Girl or boy? For whom am I put on display?

Who is it that offers such divine emancipation?

Still, I harden as soft fingers apply lotion. Then the razor expertly whisks about, gently pulling my scrotal sac this way and that to assure every follicle greets the blade’s edge. Would a woman be so knowledgeable of the male anatomy?

I put aside the thought, trying to comfort myself. It is a woman, the hands dainty, the fingers soft.

Lotion coats my arms... then comes the razor... legs... the razor... back... the razor... chest... the razor deftly swirls about my nipples. It feels good, hairlessness becoming acceptable. And my homophobia will not allow me to envision a young male being so caring and attentive.

A warm moist towel cleanses. And then come liberal squirts of unguent followed by massage. Deep. The soft hands suddenly becoming gripping and firm. The kneading of my muscles and flesh is knowing, the technique coming with expertise. My mind no longer envisions a young girl, the training, the experience apparent.

It is a woman I convince myself. It must be.

The massage ends with gobs of unguent spread between my cheeks and a testicle rub, each sphere pressed between thumb and forefinger and pushed about within my sac. Divine. Knowing.

Would a man be so attentive there?

Then comes the clinking of metal. I silently curse, right testicle then left thrust through the confining ring. Then comes ice. My penis deflates, benumbed. The mesh cockcage returns. The lock clicks. I am again in chastity.

'Dates' published

For those finding interest in 'Visit's and the Edwin Long saga, I have published a sequel.

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/dates/23270675

23,200 words. $5.50

Enjoy

CB

Visit Six

Visit Six

The week goes slowly. I find it difficult to concentrate on work matters. And I am jittery with need. For I have been returned to chastity... and with no relief afforded. Whomever shaved me neatly rinsed my pubes with a warm, wet cloth and then, as the numbness began to dissipate and I felt my penis begin to swell, worked to press the ring about my package, slipped my penis back into its cage and locked me back up.

Distraught, I obediently remained silent. In being well restrained I could not move, certainly not remove the hood. So I waited, the soft footsteps, scurrying about, the sound of running water returning, cabinet drawers opening and closing... all presumably to tidy things up.

Then my limbs were released, I received the pat to my head which has signified the end to every visit and the footsteps moved up the stairs.

Nothing more.

I waited and waited and finally arose, dressed... tee shirt, gym shorts, loafers... and departed.

Thus there will be a second week of denial, the cage ineluctable. A bowl of ice is kept at the ready next to my bed, the NPT thing coming nightly.

Tuesday I receive an email.

‘Hope you appreciate the shave. I am told that my assistant is quick and nimble with the straight edged razor.’

I find the tone of the message to be flippant concerning my condition and the lack of attention. But I dare not be rude or brusque. I have no key.
  
‘I miss your...’

I type but the words don’t flow. I miss her what? I erase and begin again.

‘Please thank her for the attention. Will I soon be having yours?’

‘Her attention?’comes a quick reply.

I pause. More flippance in suggesting I have the incorrect gender? Was I tenderly and neatly shaven by guy? The thought disgusts, but I have no way of confirming who shaved me... man or woman. And before I can ask for clarification there comes another email.

‘Saturday, 9:30 a.m. If you want another sordid thrill, remove again your clothing before opening the door.’

I pause in thought. How will the woman know whether I am naked or clothed upon entering? I had not before given that consideration. Yet, as the erudite woman explained in the initial interview, it’s about control, and having me strip naked, exposed to all outdoors, I must suppose is within the spectrum of my paraphilia.

Was it a thrill? 

I am given to inquire whether I will be offered relief... hormonal relief... but conclude the inquiry may be considered temeritous.

‘Yes Ma’am,’ I instead reply.

Such meekness.

*****

Saturday comes. After many days of internal debate, thoughts rambling, I again dress simply, ready to bare myself in an instant.

But will I do it? Even on the drive to the woman’s house I am undecided. And I tell myself, if the woman did not insist... did not command me to disrobe at the side door... why is the matter under consideration?

Just enter. How will she know?

Further muddling my mind is the assistant... she... he... with the tender hands... nimble with the straight edged razor. The shave was quick and knowing... not a nick... and to cleanly scythe the many folds of the scrotal sac is an accomplishment.

Arriving, as always I park across street, better to observe the house and the neighbors. When the cell phone flashes 9:29 I exit, thankfully no Fedex van. It is then that I finally make a decision.

Yes, I seek the sordid thrill. Slipping off my loafers, my tee shirt is pulled over my head. When I hear the lock click, the shorts come down, I bend to gather all, pull open the door and prance within. 

Just seconds of exposure. Yet I feel my penis pressing the steel mesh of its cage. I tell myself it’s the pending attention which excites.

Clothing piled, fee remitted, next to the latex hood is another post it note, more calligraphy.

‘For your neck.’

It’s attached to a thick length of leather, a buckle at one end, holes in the other, a heavily gauged one inch ring embedded in the middle. It’s a collar, I’m sure intended for a large dog, but to be adorning my neck.

I collar myself, pick up the hood and turn to the low bench and platform.

No dildo!

I am given to protest, the fee substantial, my needs to be neglected again. But I remind myself... it’s about control... ceding it.

I thus kneel, pulling the hood over my head... knees well parted, back arched, buttocks high, head low. And once again the wait is short. And once again come the soft footsteps... no boots... no Jean Nate.

I am bound. My heart leaps as the chastity device is unlocked. I instantly harden. Despite not knowing the gender of she/he tending to me, my raging hormones overwhelm reservations... stow any homophobia... concerning the gender of the hands working to slip away the ring.

The scene repeats. Running water. Drawers opening and closing. Ice. I lurch with the chill and deflate I am sure, but in numbness have no basis for the conclusion. Then comes the razor whisking away the week’s stubble. But there is more. The lotion smooths everywhere And I am wont to protest as more than my pubes is defoliated. Arms, legs, buttocks are all denuded.

How am I to explain this? Long sleeve shorts will be needed at work.

The warm wet towel rinses and cleanses. It feels good. It must be a woman I keep telling myself as I enjoy the tenderness.

The touch further soothes as my entire body is coated with slickness, the hands smoothing everywhere.

But then comes more distress. Just as the penile numbness fades, the fingers work to return me to chastity... the ring... the mesh cage... the lock.

It clicks ominously. Another week? I will not be able to work, my attention to detail diverted.

My wrists are released then gently drawn behind me, there to be again secured behind my back. Next my ankles are released and I feel fingers jumbling about my collar and hear a click. There’s pulling on my neck. I am leashed. By whom? By what?

Upward, I know to stand. Then forward I step gingerly, the hood affording nothing but darkness. Slowly, carefully I follow stepping on the tile floor. Through a door, I obey the tugs... being led about in silence. We encounter stairs, not the entrance stairway. The tugs have me stepping up... again... again... again. We are leaving the basement. More steps and I hear a door open, feel the warm breeze of summer.

Outdoors! The leash pulls. I resist. It pulls again. I freeze. Then a hand goes to my right nipple. Fingers squeeze, then twist. It’s agonizing. With another tug I step out... into the sunlight... message received... leash hand to be obeyed.

Naked and bound I am mortified! What of the woman’s concern about the neighbors?

I tell myself I am in her backyard, attempting to bring calm by convincing myself the yard is well fenced.

More tugs my right shin greets wood. With a pull upwards, I know to lift my foot and mount. The leash jostles. No more tugs. But there is slight tension. When I hear the soft footsteps moving away, I realize my leash has been tied off above. I cannot sit or kneel.

The warm breezes bring a curious brisance, my denuded skin well oiled, the sensation welcomed but for being put on display naked, bound and outdoors. Then comes the demented thrill. My penis fights its cage, engorging to defy me.

Why? Why here? Why now?

Control... the woman is broadening the spectrum of my paraphilia. And the surrendering of control comes when not even in her presence.   

Visit Five

Visit Five

Whereas normally the woman emails me first after a morning session, nothing arrives.... not Saturday, not Sunday, not Monday. Meanwhile, penis locked in a mesh cage, male package encircled in a formidable ring of steel, I find myself exploring and testing.

It’s a well made device, certainly not a toy. It fits snugly... firm yanks bringing pain and no freedom. I must squat to pee, the mesh allowing the passage of excretions. And thereafter the steel wipes cleanly. I can shower without impediment and though there is modest chafing, baby powder brings relief.  

So I can work... with loose slacks. Whereas I can hear the small padlock flipping about when I move, I learn my cohorts at work cannot. Such also brings relief.

On the negative side, the male phenomenon of unwanted erections... nocturnal penile tumescence... brings agonizing discomfort, and at all times of the night. The cage is unmerciful, unyielding and on two occasions I have had to ice myself down. 

Finally on Tuesday, still no communication, I furtively email her while at work.

‘I enjoyed my Saturday visit, Ma’am,’ choosing humble words. ‘Will this locking device be removed? Another Saturday visit?’

The 9:30 appointments are not prearranged. To date each visit has come by specific invitation. So though not in panic, there is additional need for engaging in the woman’s ritual... to time the locking door, descend the stairs, remove my clothing, don the hood, humbly kneel in wait... to get out of this nasty steel entrapment! 

Late Tuesday night, before bed, in desperation I check my email.

A reply!

‘I have not forgotten you, Mr. Long. Yes do visit on Saturday. 9:30. You’re to be shaved, the stubble can be uncomfortable. Meanwhile the device should be instilling discipline... no naughty fingers... no stroking hand. And over time you’ll be eager to perform for me.’

My thumping heart certainly suggests I am eager.

‘Yes Ma’am, 9:30 a.m.’ the medium of email concealing my enthusiasm.

As I step to the bathroom, one last visit before bed, there comes an unexpected response.

‘Take off your clothes in my driveway, Mr. Long. Let’s see how exacting you can be in timing your entry.’

My thumping heart now pounds in reading the missive. Concern over the neighbors seems to be situational... when the situation merits, the woman risks exposing the nature of her services. And the woman did say she prefers men who can be exact.

I console myself, Saturday mornings there is little activity in the residential neighborhood. In the past three visits there have been no interlopers, no one observing my arrival. Still it will be broad daylight and what if I mistime the entry? A little early will bring moments of concern in waiting for the click of the lock. But if I am late? I would need to hurriedly redress.

Then a telling thing happens. My penis swells and begins to fight its cage. Though fearful, the notion excites.

I type ‘Yes, Ma’am’ in reply then head to the kitchen.

I need ice.     

*****

Saturday morning comes. In being held in chastity, I have just one cup of coffee. I will not need a piss proud penis to aid an erection. Unlocked, I suspect that my manhood will be springing from its cage like a Bengal Tiger.

I also dress thoughtfully, my nudity demanded before entering the side door. Therefore no undergarments are worn, no socks, my loose tee shirt can be quickly slipped over my head, and though gym shorts will appear out of place in wearing loafers, both can be doffed in seconds.

Still there is concern. For it’s one thing to be caught naked... it’s another to be so exposed while my privates are locked in steel. So on the drive I try to formulate some story should I encounter a neighbor... or worse a patrolling policeman.

Nothing comes to mind. 

I arrive, parking across the street, my cell phone suggesting I have ten minutes to spare. I surveil the neighborhood. Gratefully no activity. Still I begin to tremble and by 9:29 I am shaking like a leaf.

Exiting the car, a Federal Express delivery van arrives, pulling up behind. How long does a delivery require? The woman driver exits promptly. Package for the neighbor opposite, there is a clear line of vision to the driveway and the side door.

What to do?

The door unlocks for thirty seconds. I have no idea of the consequences should I miss the interval for entry. Hopefully reschedule another visit. But another week with penis in captivity? I cannot withstand. The appendage needs to breathe... better to stand... to spurt.

At the door, my cell phone reads 9:30 just as the door lock clicks. I kick off my loafers and slip my shirt over my head. I look to see that the action draws no notice from the driver, a man in gym shorts, ostensibly ending a workout, perhaps preparing to cut the lawn... nothing out of sorts.

Dare I pull open the door and use it as cover in removing my shorts? How would such action jive with the demand that I be naked upon entering?

Mentally I try to count the seconds as the woman glances my way before reentering the van. Finally the engine starts. As she pulls away I lower my shorts and hastily pull open the door, holding it open in bending to gather my shoes and limited covering.

Breathing heavily, it’s down the stairs, lights clicking on to illuminate. Then it’s clothing stowed, fee remitted, hood gathered. But when I step to the low bench and platform there is no dildo.

Odd. Still, it’s tummy to the bench, knees well parted, back arched, buttocks high, head low and I eagerly slip on the hood. I need attention!

I am heartened that the kitchen door opens. Limited wait. There come footsteps... soft, no boots.

Then more deviation. Soft hands grasp my right wrist. For the first time the cuffs are used, one by one each limb secured, assuring I am made one with the bench.

Strange. I have obediently remained in position for each visit, yet bindings are now deemed needed. Then I realize... no Jean Nate!

This cannot be the woman who masters me... uses me... demands that I spurt for her on cue!

Yet, as fingers rummage about between my thighs there comes the welcomed sound of a click. The penis cage slips away. The steel ring is worked, right testicle then left pushed through the tight loop. And yes, I obediently harden... but for whom?

The celebration is dampened by the unknown. And without being fanny fucked, how it is I am to ejaculate when the signaling slap comes to my buttocks?

The soft footsteps retreat. To the cabinets. There comes the sound of water. The footsteps return. Hands again rummage between my thighs and I suddenly lurch, wrist and ankles testing the bindings.

Ice! Just as I have applied such to counter the nocturnal penile tumescence. The chill is relentlessly applied, numbing completely. I soften... I must so assume. Then my nose detects soap. The ice is removed. About my pubes there is felt foamy softness then the gentle scrap of a razor.

‘I am to be shaved’... the email coming to mind.

But by whom?  

Visit Four

Visit Four

‘You did not present yourself fully erect for me, Mr. Long. Do you have a masturbation problem? I want to see a firm penis before tending to your needs. Such is a tribute to a woman of my ilk. And your effluent seemed limited for a man of 32.’

The chiding question comes two days after the latest visit. Emails, slaps to my buttocks and a patting hand to my head seem to be the only form of communication.

Ruefully I write back, admitting that with the loneliness and long hours of engineering work my hand does seem stray from time to time.

‘I will change that. You will produce only for me and when and if I want to have you emptied. Saturday 9:30 a.m. Be kneeling and erect for me. Meanwhile do not touch yourself.’

Such wondrous command, such in charge demeanor. What more I can say other than to type ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ and click send?

So Saturday comes after a long week of obediently denying myself... my stroking hand idle.

I arise early, nocturnal penile tumescence awakening me... the curious condition not to be addressed with the normal stroke or two. So I take the time to shave down below as demanded. Still, I find myself leaving my apartment early as for some reason I cannot calm myself. I stop at a convenience store and purchase a large coffee. In being my third cup for the morning with limited bathroom visits, a filled bladder should aid in the demand that I greet her in hardness.

So I sip and stare at my cell phone, guzzling the dregs as the numerals 9:29 alight. Then the weekly scene repeats, to the driveway, the door clicking, stairs negotiated, fee remitted, clothing removed, tummy down, knees parted, back arched, hood donned, dildo warmed and wetted.    

I wait. And I wait. And fortunately with a solid week of denial, thoughts of the woman’s governance and a piss proud penis, I slowly feel myself engorge.

What is this odd sense of pride?

Then comes the rattle of the kitchen door, the boots, the scent of Jean Nate, the rustle of clothing as she bares herself. The dildo is taken from my mouth, the sound of the ridged protuberance sliding into a moist love nest becoming a catalyst. I seem to harden more as the boots move behind me. Fingers gently graze my erection. It waggles... in celebration... but also in need... that which will not be addressed... not as I crave it.

The fingers withdraw. A hand pats my head. Reward... for greeting my superior in full tumescence... just as she demands. 

Then my heart leaps, my hormones primed, as fingers lubricate and a hand grips my plums.

My weekly fucking. The woman’s weekly ritual. I yield... I give... my pride vanquished... my needs subordinated.

With a week of self imposed chastity, I am wont to scream for attention... that of a stroking hand.

It comes not. Instead my anus is penetrated. It is the beginning... a persuading initial thrust... announcing who is in charge... and who will cede.

Balls as a lever, the woman’s strength seeming to grow weekly, plunge, plunge, plunge. And my legs quake, my back throbs, the pose ungainly... but demanded.

Then the finger hooks, drawing downward a rock hard penis which would so much like to perform for her... explode in manly virility.

Yet, it will not happen. Not until she decides... not until she is fully pleasured.

So in hooded darkness I once again take it... take all she wishes to offer. And finally comes her orgasm... the muffled gasp... along with the release of a penis most firm. Snapping upwards, there comes the signaling slap to my buttocks and I explode... again on cue... again obediently responding to her silent command. And there comes an odd sense of pride with the brief and unfulfilling spending... another ruined orgasm... but afforded under her total control.

Why is there satiation?

The dildo withdraws. There comes the expected plop, the wetness greeting my lips. But unexpectedly I hear the boots move to a cabinet and the opening of a drawer. There follows the sound of clinking metal as the boots return. Then fingers diddle about my spent organs, working about my scrotum. My flaccid penis is slipped into something. Then comes a click... for some reason seeming loud... convincing? 

Finally the rewarding pat to my head announces that our tete a tete is over, the rustle of clothing as she covers herself, the boots going to the stairs.

As instructed I wait for the closing of the kitchen door before arising. When my weary legs slide from the bench and the platform I remove the hood, sensing weightiness about my penis and testicles. When I look downward I see my male package has been ringed in steel, my penis caged, a small padlock assuring that my recent pledge of self induced chastity will be not so much abetted... but assured.

I have no key. 

'A Woman's Revenge' snippet

For those who are curious, there is a lengthy snippet from the story posted here on February 13, 2010.

http://chrisbellows.blogspot.com/2010/02/from-womans-revenge.html

Enjoy

Special for August

Special for August.

Both ‘A Woman’s Revenge’...

http://www.lulu.com/shop/chris-bellows/a-womans-revenge-a-tale-of-taboo/ebook/product-6525478.html

and the sequel ‘Mademoiselle Rules’...

http://www.lulu.com/shop/chris-bellows-and-chris-bellows/mademoiselle-rules-sequel-to-a-womans-revenue/ebook/product-6535565.html

will be on sale for the month of August. Extreme Female Dominance, bondage, corporal punishment, incestuous undertakings... if the interaction can be so defined.

Normally $4.00 each now $2.10

I blew the title when I posted ‘Mademoiselle Rules’ for publication... and it cannot be changed. Such frustration!