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.