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.