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?