Snippet from 'Finally Kept', finishing the Edwin Long saga

From the finale 'Finally Kept'.

This ends the trilogy of the Edwin Long saga.

For those who have read 'Visits' and "Dates', this third and final segment is available at...

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/finally-kept/23387451

30,500 words, $6.55. 

On or about October 1st, I will post the trilogy on Lulu in a single package and suspend the sale of 'Visits' and 'Dates'.

My New Home

Leashed, naked and bound, Miss Rikka leads into the top floor penthouse apartment. It is huge. It is magnificently furnished. It has a breathtaking view of the city and beyond. And I am told it will be the last thing I see for quite some time.

“Ms. Hartley has a special place... for you to be kept.”

Heartened that the elevator ride was uneventful, no interloping tenants, there comes offsetting disappointment as I am led straight through the expansive livingroom, down a hall past several bedrooms and into a pitch black room of size. The walls are covered with curvy black foam like material. The ceiling is painted black. The carpeting is thick, also black. And if there were windows such have been covered with the same foam stuff. Centered is a bed... but really a wooden platform with a thin mattress. Around the perimeter are straps and cuffs, the restraints appearing to be quite convincingly severe.

“You will be kept here until you are broken, disavowed of any notion of having free will. Thereafter you will serve Miss Justine... in any manner demanded. Ms. Hartley wants her to be happy, liberated of all desire for male companionship and thus able to concentrate on her studies.”

As Miss Rikka speaks she leads me to a low stool. By now I know to step up. And sure enough the leash is replaced by a hook hanging from a cable emanating from the ceiling. To my right, almost unseen in the darkness, there is a low bench. I am mindful of that in the woman’s basement.

“You are obedient, Mr. Long,” noting the meekness by which I assist with her control. “But you’re still to be well restrained... while not being caned.”

My shibari rope configuration now secured to the hook and cable, a booted foot pushes away the stool and I once again hang. My feet are lifted and my ankle ropes are returned my wrists. I again helplessly dangle in a kneeling position.

“Just a few hours,” Miss Rikka moving to a wall to grasp a dark cloth hood. “And you’ll be comfortable. I’ve had too much training and too much experience with shibari for you to be bound otherwise.”

The hood slips over my head. Once again Miss Rikka playfully pushes at my buttocks, the sight of my vulnerable nakedness bringing a low chuckle. I swing about like a puppet.

“And I think you’ll enjoy as well,” a finger going to my engorging penis, gently rubbing the swelling flesh to assure that both she and I are aware of my arousal.

Wriggling about, trying to frottage more against the warm teasing single digit, I curse myself, my weeks of denial showing.

 “Such deviance, Mr. Long... such warped needs.”

It is true. I would so much like more... to have my penis stand for her. Alas it cannot.

I hear the froufrou of boots on the carpeting and a click. What little light glowing from under the hood disappears. The darkness is thorough. I am hanging in a defacto cave.       

So here I remain under the tutelage of this woman... evidently from Japan... and more than evidently one of misandry. Humiliated... concerned... frightened of the unknown... yet I marvel at the long term comfort. Moving, squirming about produces nothing... other than to ironically enhance the sense of being under complete control... a woman’s complete control.

For how long?

*****

I’d like to think it is a daily routine, yet I have no way to confirm. Time is not measurable without the setting and rising sun.

I find I am either hanging in darkness, being caned to the point that my vocal cords feel about to erupt, or strapped supine to the platform bed. I learn that the straps and cuffs are German, professionally designed and fabricated for institutions such as mental hospitals, penitentiaries for the criminally insane and I suppose for the likes of determined women. Miss Rikka suggested that if I were able to so much as loosen myself... not so much escape... I would be the first.

A special head restraint assures complete immobility and I am to learn of its utility quickly. Any woman who chooses to squat above my hooded head... or sit for that matter... can with complete insouciance relieve herself. Failure to fully imbibe... and do so neatly... earns bastinado... the application of rattan to the soles of my feet. Agonizing.

So I soon learn I partake... and to do so with feigned eagerness.   

Whom is it offering her golden elixir? I know not, the deed coming in complete silence and while hooded. But judging from the taste and with my tongue and lips occasionally savoring moist flesh during clean up, the many offerings are from at least a trio of supervising women. I must guess that it is Miss Rikka, Ms. Hartley... and in hoping... also Miss Justine... the youthfully divine Miss Justine.

Released from the platform bed, Miss Rikka returns me to rope bondage. I learn the tie she uses is termed ‘hishi karada’, translated as ‘rope dress’. And am always amazed at how quickly I am placed in the web of rope, moved to the low stool and suspended for more hours of humiliation. 

As I swing about, I am fed. Directed to relieve myself into a basin. Forced to perform well supervised bowel movements while in full body suspension... with a suppository assuring timeliness... my waste oozing past the rope wedged in my gluteal cleft.

I am caned.... slowly... methodically... my screams absorbed by the foam walls and deep carpeting. Much later to be returned to the platform bed, more elixir comes. Then some sleep, though passing out from the stress may be the more apropos description.

Well into the ordeal there also come visits from a woman who occasionally talks to me... with a degree of kindness. I lie supine, restrained of course... always restrained... and she applies a laser... the process of removing hair from my entire body lengthy and meticulous.

Yes, she speaks, instructing and cautioning for obedience when a given limb must be temporarily freed of its straps and cuffs.

Expensive, apparently multiple applications required to assure the follicles are well decimated, she works away, apparently with Miss Rikka or some other stern woman observing. For any attempt for me to speak earns a brisk ‘tap’ to my foot.

I howl. And though the woman is not one of them, her light chuckle suggests there is amusement in finding that something so quick and simple can bring such excruciating pain and instant compliance. I learn not to speak.    

In finishing each session, I feel like I am sunburned, though the discomfort is tolerable compared to the canings. Until I am given a sponge bath. Skin raw, the chamois is soft yet agonizing.
           
Over time my hair grows. And on occasion my hood is removed for grooming, I suppose to test its lengthiness. These are relished moments, and despite the endless bondage and daily application of bamboo, I look into the almond eyes of my tormentress with more than more respect. There is adoration... for her resolve... for her knowledge... for her sternness... her harshness... for the ease she finds in doing all this to me.

She returns my look with a knowing grin... so much aware that deep within me there is the quirky joy. She knows this... so cognizant of my depravity. Otherwise there are no words exchanged. Nothing needs to be said.

I am kept.