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.